reading
in the extra
room
that which
you wrote
to stay

I could be
a scarecrow
with a pack
of condoms, a nose

breather
with a broken
jaw, a poor

even
for poverty

****

mixed-up
in a case
of correct
identity, all three

perhaps
praying
in a cave
over a can
of paint

I, you, born

inside
a baby

knowing
obsession
would starve