Tartan scarf and smirk,

I checked your sleeves for your heart and we spoke as plainly as plaid,

A bail of hay,

Perfect for your ***,

Seated,

Rested so my chest can pump all this blood to my brain.

Light.

Headed.

I know you.

No, I do.

Like I Love Lucy re-runs,

Or an abandoned auto-parts yard,

Searching for an engine, a motor, a drive,

To push gears,

Grind pistons and **** me up.

I’ve found it.

Now break me.

Put me in chapter 11.

Can’t pay a visit.

Page 2, verse 4,

“I’ve

Got

A high-rent heart,

tied in a knot.”

You’re a scoundrel.

This is your doing.

But I know you.

Wrapped in a Woolrich flannel and slapping my face red-and-black

Without saying a word.