there is a photograph of a blind ******
that stares at me when I’m not there
and a footless boy that wears my boots
who eats my toast with teeth so false
they make no impression upon its worth
there are leather wrinkles in his smile
that make me blush and wait a while
to watch and stare at his wolf red eyes
at his forced composure that does exercise
upon his boast the eating of all my toast
though I do not mind
for he is kind
and has lips of cheery red
that I wish instead
of eating toast
if all were said were kissing me instead
then I look at the picture of the blind ******
and find to my surprise
there’s no one there