05 October 2008
I Often Write Poems In Bed.
No One's Woman
A maker of fine fancies,
she'll read your soul then eat your heart for breakfast with toast.
She's the period that ends all your unusual musings.
She's the ellipses that continues them at a later date.
Passing out fliers, tearing out want-ads,
she makes other people seem selfish for wanting her contact information.
She creates delight one finger at a time,
pressing down your weakest yearnings.
A threat to your very humanity,
she is the survivor of the crash that killed her.
You are three meals a day.
You are the first measure of my favorite song;
the one where I turn it up and start to belt the lyrics I've memorized.
You are birthday cake
and a walk in bare feet.
You're a sleazy pick-up line created by a clever mind to make me chuckle.
You are a finger tickling me in the exact spot:
"Not there," I said.
Because I knew you'd do it anyway.
You are my favorite thing:
A cup of coffee: one sugar, two creams.