You hum softly in the haze of dusk
The song of a passing ice cream truck,
A penny for a spool of thread
Toes digging in the loose dusty soil,
Tapping the long forked fire **** to either
Side as though blind, blind from smoke and
Tears and the darkness of
The canyons of silence Between us
A penny for a needle
The branch balances precariously on the
End of the fork, a tightrope walker
Plucked from the ground by a metal unfeeling god
That's the way the money goes
Until you dump it into the fire
Pop goes the weasel
And the obvious irony, the irony so
Commonly placed in horrors
I've got no time to plead and pine
Is what makes me laugh until
The tears bead up on the end of my nose
I've got no time to wheedle
Or so it feels like, because inevitably,
Always, somehow
Kiss me quick before I'm gone
You always light me up
*Pop goes the weasel