Your mind to the
left of you, in bed, with the rest
of the furniture,
knees drawn up to your chin
and me thinking, this is a
fine time to remember something--
to come back again and again.
All manner of
shine scouts out its source,
the light on your legs bare skin.
What was the joke
you did a handstand on, resting
the back of your shredded bedhead
on the windowsill? Can't remember,
but there was real brown making a
beeline from your eyes
as you laughed
across the
punchline, delivered
Chicago-style, deadpan.
"I don't enjoy raped pizza."
To wit: be respectful of leftovers.
In short: make me a kiss.
So I did.
So I did.
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