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I can’t do it anymore because it doesn’t mean anything,
just take it from me and I’ll be satisfied,
put the drinks on the tray and walk towards me,
left foot after right and you know the way I see,
like this,
like that,
it’s wholesome enough for my work to be displayed.
Kinky boots don’t take the orange away,
juxtaposition doesn’t make it smart.
Know that the tubes inside your mind are dwindling,
deadly enough and so far near the wall
that the pictures remind us of who we are and those that are
deceased.
Sit by my side and caress my knee,
touch the hair upon my nape,
jab your heels into my jugular then remind me to make you tea.
By the way you look I’d say forty
or fifty,
patterned in my purse your fingerprint,
holding up to the light figures of younglings.
Immense turning and folding will not make a better day.
Tear out the article because it’s not yours.
Give it back to whom it belongs.