The truth hangs caught between your teeth
Like some unfortunate rodent
About to give up the struggle,
Fleeing when you tire of the game.
Your lips still tell me everything,
The vowels insisting on a taste
And all about you a halo
Streetlamping this September rain,
The thunderbolt still rattling
Like a Johnson outboard motor
On a runabout,  me tethered
By a fraying rope, doing tricks
On one old narrow, wooden ski--
You glancing back to see me smile.