All your art?
Your father threw it away,
sculptures of music that my
hands had helped
create.
It has molded in the yard,
cloth I had tied around my head
as I danced and we drank
malt soda. You've always
always always always
always been beautiful.
It doesn't take me to show
you that. You know.
The need of man's hand on the small of my back,
the shallow of my spine and the shallow of
myself is not art.
Your father threw your music in the yard,
your writing stays right on my desk.
Your words cannot be rotting in the woods,
they'll be safe here with me.