that swing into your life and swing
back out again. Too hung up to call! Living in their
shanty walls. Fragmented pieces are tiles
on their floor. Sticks are their roof, that don't

waterproof the spoor. Their "welcome mat"
written in children's play chalk! Snow covers
the letters erased from a spring rain. I'm replaced
as a glass of champagne.

if you should leave? Trees shake off
their leaves in the fall. The sun leaves
the day as night calls. A man leaves his home
to take a wife. But if you leave my life I’ll
not shake it off.

What'll happen to me
if you should grow pale. My lacey
wedding veil fades to yellow in the wash. My face
loses  pigment as my tan recedes. But if
you grow pale? Not! For all pale
next to you.

What’ll happen to me
if you should die? The grass dies
in wintertime, covered in a crust
of snow. Worms are food for
the crow. But if you die I’ll not be
covered.

pulled, glossy
and sweet. A candy
men like to eat. I’m just
a confection. Upon inspection

I dissolve
as I'm chewed up. I've revolved
in an orbit of infested sick men,
that like honey wrapped up
in clear packaging. A new flavor

to savor, cherry and honeydew,
strawberry, blueberry chews. I’m stuck
in a sticky mess. Pounding it out
every morning, no less. But it's my job -

sugary, sticky colorful glob!

of your garter, that hold up
your stocking, but not your
vertebra. Barter for wanton
lure. The men, translucent
and elastic hook on in a snap
as the nylon, without the strap.

They strip you
of your cover. Your armor is
strapped on and wrapped in lace
and underwire, and shall expire
in a couple of years. You've rusty
gears.

They strip you
of your prestige, label you
a tease. You revolt with crimson
lipstick and black widow mascara. You,
a Mata Hari hiding in your sherry. Pain
ripe as berries swallow down your grief
through clenching teeth.

a gale of wind
and you’re knocked
down to the ground,
along with all your

needles.  Makes
a dance floor
for the wood boring
beetles. If you were thick

as a cow your fallen
bough men can rest their
rumps on. Even stumps
from the trees make

a cool seat. But you’re thin
as an old ****, with worms for
hair and a lair for tunneling
mites. Your ballroom days

are but a maize the cows
graze on. A trough is not
a sweet spot to sit on.

an ocean
You’re lost in
the notion you
have to hold back. I’ve
build a ship. And in every
drip we’ll sail till the tip
and back.

Cry me
a river
You’re lost in
a quiver. But I’ve build
us a raft. And we’ll float
in the draft, lying back.

Cry me
a waterfall
You’re lost in
the squall. But I’ve
build me a bucket. And we’ll
roll to Nantucket breathing from
the crack I’ve cut in the back.

time
burning up the hours
as if they’re calories
and I’m on an exercise machine.
Not for this queen!

I ****
men
softly with my body –
La petite mort
a shoddy sport

I ****
myself
wearing make-up
so I can look like
a model
and have men
coddle me
as if I'm an egg.

I ****
woman
with laughter.
But after I leave
the room
and take off the mask
they don't ask
about me –
Guess they can live
without me!