if I was an eraser
and you were chalk
on the blackboard,
until you were a billowing
mass of dust. And I’d inhale
you as a cigarette and smoke the rust.

I could wipe you clean
if I was a sponge
and you were a spill
on the granite counter.
I’d soak you up through
my pores. You wouldn’t lay
cold and flat, so the ants can dance
around you. The smell of you
inside of me, dearie has me
singing as a canary.

I could wipe you clean
if I was soap
and you were the dirt
that stuck on me
as a mud pie. You’d
stain my bathwater as you came off
and I'd sit in it lost
as a pickle  in a jar of juice.

I could wipe you clean
but not out of my head
if a man splattered my brains –
you’d break out
but I’d be dead!