The earth in which tired
city feet desire to rest on.
Plushly thick forests,
be lost and never found,
coating yourself in saturated
autumn leaves that
reflect the pulsing warmth
in the golden sun.

Your sticky honey,
rich and sweet pools in mason jars,
tempting to silver spoon scoop and
spur morning teas.
Or the mocha
in newly brewed coffee,
the bold and the cream
swirling inside your crystal *****.

Little miss tittle-tattle brags -
says, "This job is ***."
That those who perform
are a "talentless" bore,
but irony gives me
the last laugh:
An upgrade up the stairs,
a little pay and some more-
it was fair.
Now that I'm not there,
guess who's in my old chair?

I've no desire
To fix the hole in your heart
But fit mine in it