The sickly sweet copper smell of Copley
tangles itself in my hair as I wait
for the D train, which always runs least.
And I wonder about the day
I’ll be through writing love poems.
I wonder still, as I crawl into bed,
and you ask me
ever so sweetly–and somewhat silly–
to shower, for I smell like the train.
After my shower I’ll slip
back to bed smelling
of Suave, which was cheap
this week at Shaw’s
and your loudly snoring self will pull me close.















Comments
--
'if you want to see the future
go stare into a cloud'
poetry @ skydream: [link]
photo @ skysight: [link]
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