A clogged road salt tongue, processing.
His fingers make her feel like
licking nickles
to remember what kisses are worth.
Ignore his hangnail snagging on her
sweater
undoing the pretty stitches,
libido too dense to notice.
He is stale medicine.
He is morning breath without blushing and
always crushing the flowers when he stomps right
through the bed.
Routine gardening.
Her, weeding when morning breaks.
Composting boy parts, him.
For hard water stains, scrub in the afternoon.
No comments:
Post a Comment