Spread these cold pages with squirming muscle,
aged with worried kinks and liquid stains over time,
as one more minute delay captures the difference,
changing this statue from a man, into girl, to monster.
A careless drink spills across for what amounts to days,
only a little off the top to rearrange that stubborn itch,
hiding marbles and pencils that roll to lose the last hour,
worth almost as much as whatever those smudges hide.
Romance takes its time and attentive concentration,
so best not turn over before you’re both equally finished,
those kisses matter when laying down another approach test,
as the sweetest talk unties even those tight fitted laces.
Ride his lonely processional talk of violence and drugs,
staring at confrontational blurs out one pitted door,
and low stacks of colored syrup straws renders the other,
with this boy wishing everyone quiet now so he can think.
On her scabbed knees in front of the latest attractive idol,
a secure choker wrapped about a long twisted floor lamp,
words of wisdom drizzling from this imagined bright character,
before she can achieve much distance, the pulleys’ hard snap.
Lead these sorry rats over a fist wielding tamed landscape,
all the smiles buying Him that extra mile in this segregation,
thinking they had it handedly before the money started to burn,
as with those foolish predictions now so boring in comparison.
Spread these with vigor without an opened naked window,
don’t dare pace a few extra steps or have a restful cup of coffee,
picking your nails after scratching about the head and face,
more days robbed blind by ticking clocks with crying children.
Lost notes confuse even though they were clearly written down,
smoked meat and music from our modest vacationing neighbors,
patrol dogs in their corralled traffic run down by power tools,
so it seems like the only valuable bunker is two am in a lit closet.
Sharwrong's Song 