someone veiled the night sky,
replaced it with a copy.
but the copy's a filter;
gaussian blur.
the ribbiting street lamp
pokes fun at me.
all i do all day
is speak to credit cards.
hand to card to hand,
no real connection.
but the old mop
has your silhouette,
your hairstyle,
and there's some feeling there.
i clean the floor with your head,
loving strokes.
i fill your locks with dirt and debris,
until
the sweets in the store container
stop screaming.
No comments:
Post a Comment