“Was it a farmer or a long haul trucker, handsome?”
“Antimacassars,” he says.
Mood killed; but, don’t look for moths amongst the new things.
And, my conversions grow sloppy; but, I always know your local time.
The heavens fell and up the churning depths rose, until no one remembered that
one used to be above as was the other once below.
Pole shifts and tom cats with bobbed tails, stabilized by putting
a palm on the small of my back.
A psilent psalm.
She took more notes than necessary; and, it would have been easier to highlight the lines she didn’t want to remember.
But, that defeats the purpose.