When considering stains on the ceiling
to avoid the incoming debate,
I noticed the plaster is peeling,
a few of the tiles aren't straight.
Perhaps if I practice my acting,
appearing just focused enough,
I won't have to argue and nit-pickle words,
waste time on a greased-squirrel truth.
Can you pit songs against sunsets?
Can you measure the weight of a thought?
To spark fights between sonnets feels brutish,
betting on blood of mad dogs.
Tell me why can't we let them exist in sweet dialogue,
rather than dissecting cadavers with chainsaws?