I see your tongue,
In its funny,
Post office box,
Very red and very stylishly white.
But funny, I’m not catching much.
This is in the morning,
The new sun catching in my eyes
So that I’m squinting blind
At my styrofoam bitter cup,
That all day long we must drink up.
I hear you gargling nonsense on the radio,
They call it “roast” when it’s someone you don’t know,
And if it was not you,
It was your happy ghost.
I gripped the wheel,
But stayed in my lane.
Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?
You visit me on my lunch break,
Follow me like a dog from the dining room
So that I’ll listen to your newest theory,
So I’ll see the other women nod, they believe you
They don’t know that your pull on their faces is
Crayon wax in the face of car fumes.
All I wanna do is just smoke this damned cigarette
And go home.
Evening at last. You serenade the bones
Of my tired, lonely body,
And so late in the day
When the sunbeams
Turn their gazes on some other somebody,
An embrace at least warm, if empty.
We’re going to end in fire, and not in ice;
That’s just the admission price.