It matters not to her
How brusque
Or Deep-voiced
Or Pointy-fingered
I am
when she
Begs at the table
And I say
NO
She knows
Her wag
Will wear
Me
Down

We shall pass away
Die
Before you
Or I
make a dusted nickle
from our sticky prevarications
Our summations
The declarations
Of self we purport
To be of some interest
To others  other than us

We shall fade like whispers
In a noisy room
With  OUR echoes
Muffled
Tucked away
Until we
Are dirt-bound

Oh, we will be remembered
Recalled
Even misquoted
After
After

And when we are dead
We
Will guide
The stars
In
New Poets' skies
And dust off those nickles
So that they shine

She was the prettiest ******* the playground swing
She was eleven
I was nine
I knew that it was doomed from the beginning
Stars in Heaven
Misaligned
Her pleated skirt-fly defying gravities
I was buried by
Her tall laugh singing
Digging me deeper
Years were bigger
Steeper back then
I wonder where she swings now
High and silly-free
Or down in the dirt
Where I still play
Two years behind

I never argue with her
I simply give her
Anything she asks for
Silently
A minor fee
A quiet effort
Nothing, really
For what she gives me
A kiss
To keep me hushed
Happy
Mutely secure
Dumb and Lucky

Breathe and pant
focus
push
push
wait
Grab onto something
anything
push
push
cry
People stand waiting
curious
push
push
scream
It crowns
It slides out
You have birthed so many
ideas

There was no showdown
no paper-tied-to-rock-through-the-window
ultimatum
nor
last minutes
to prepare

There was no warning
no alarms-sirens-bells-flashing lights
no manual
nor
instructions
to save him

There was no face-off
no walk-ten-paces-then-turn
no preparation
nor
split-seconds
to stop and aim

There was only the kiss
He was doomed

He ran
Screaming
Munch-like
only three-dimensional
demeaned
and
demented
and
fearful
of such a love

Like a painting
He would hang
when
she
caught him
forever
on her wall