That sneaking suspicion that nothing has changed
new haircut and the shirt that makes me sweat
sleepy Basinger offers me pet names and winks
then there is that song flashing that on this, again
only a martyr now, it rebounds me to another night
my fireside whiskey partner and her real fake eyes
lavender spaghetti strapped impossibility, wasting
she and me, we act our parts as a different play plays on
inside she's already mine, primed to be displaced
we share cigarettes I don't want, secondhand yellow kisses
silly as it is, that and this is what taxis me to here and there
like absurd notions only backed by the Green party
words, this style, seeded at blue table #2 in Mrs G's class
little Melissa Earing, that smile, the beginning and end of me
poet
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