This is not a poem. It's just a thing I'm going to write. Right now.
It sucks. Truly. Distance, I mean.
*Couples on a lonely weekday street, oblivious
to their perfection.
*Wide grins, smiles that hang loose like root ginger,
a jabbing finger in my ribs.
Ha ha. Get it? Get it?
*These jovial faces flit and float by, arrows
in a tree trunk, the crisp crack of split bark.
These faces. Very, very dangerous.
*I wish
to take these faces, I want
to take these faces, I aim
to take these faces
and tear them off one
by
one,
toss them in the flowerbeds as I walk
past the bank.
*This is what I will do.
I will strip these ingrate lovers naked,
I will peel off the faces of the proximate.
I will take these grins and winks,
these tossed-back heads and languid smiles,
I will steal back what is rightfully mine.
I will pry you from the cold, steely grip
of minute-hands and odometers.
I shall be the Poet, and you--
you shall be the Muse.
