You try
making up for your
thinness of character
by slurping the thick
syrup of Chinese food
the broccoli a glittering slick
of sauce
too rich for me
saccarine
the chicken glowing
in the neon light
in its neon sauce
radioactive under the dim lamps
the curling carpets
and wax flowers
You know I don't like it
here
you know I'd prefer
a switch of sweetness
from morsel to mouth
know somewhere
in the stitch and sketch
that is your brilliant brain
that noodles decked
like a war hero
lack charm
in the dark
could you pass the wantons
and take me home
to your warm nest
to the scritch of old blankets
that smell your spiced,
and soapless smell?
to a place where
past the books
I'm not allowed to borrow
and the sleep
we do not share
there glimmers
naturally,
occasionally
like lake water
where the streetlights don't show
something more tender
than snow peas
in a sticking sauce.
