GOSSIP IS MY GARGOYLE

After storms, when wasted words come gushing
from his bat-eared maw, my shoulder creaks
beneath gray weight. He wildly grins as rushing
rumors drown the room, then turns and speaks
of mottled plots to his voracious crowd.
He jumps, half flies from one friend to another
-- sometimes murmuring, other times quite loud --
and dumps half-lies with one end or the other.
Lately I've seen him hunching on the phone
to find out Who is rolling in Who's bed.
How he cackles! But when I'm so alone
that I retreat to courtyards in my head,
how boorish and sad he sits without a word,
and how tired and sore I am from all I've heard.