Hot dog simulacrum
synthetic feather bed
fake pigeon tears
the faux canary we keep for when we need cheering up or imaginary singing
The room comes together with these elegant pieces
the setee, divan, the chandalier's glass weeping. Here we gather, here
we wassail.  Our songs vary; the theme
vacilates between utter joy and grieving our houses to the ground. The music
puddles in the eaves.
Dreaded dampness in my hair and bones.
Shrouded me in clammy silence
the quiet that reeks of years of practice, the quiet that
sets an impeccable table and waits for company to come
oh, that's what they all say, you're thinking, but you're just my new Commodore 64
I say you're thinking of wild horses , pretty legs, the way fire licks an ankle into arousal
You say you're thinking of what to make for lunch.
I think you are thinking of how to make me cry.
A gallant wouldn't do that, would he?
Mais oui if he was feeling the squeeze of his armor
of spikenard and lavender light.
I never know, i just never know
where you are right now.
You, a safety-sealed package
and me, the desperate heart of a sandwich chef
being dissolved in suburbia.
Like so many lawn jockeys, like so many clapped hands.