You are twenty days late
In your response
Who do you think you are?
That I’d jump at your thumbspeak?

It was a passing thing

Thinking about you now
With your flecked baldness
Your Cheshire cat teeth
Glowing against
Your ***** black skin

Your disease
A foul smell
In the arid air

The long stretch
Of your tawny arms
That once carried
The weight
Of your insecurities

Your sweaty palms
Like milk
The sweat
In your back

Your unpunctuated sentences
And your shallow joys…

You are twenty days late
But you’ve lost me
On the fourth day