Not-a-love-poem
(A Poem)
Face mask past your eyelids.
You’re like The Smiths played in happy hour,
blacksmiths plaid in purple flowers,
yellow rain birthing rainbows on my window’s
wallpaper. Locked screen, could you
please give me the finger.
I’ll ring you when the time’s right.
Left to me I’d down the day till drowned
and weak, with Monty Python in my ears
for decades till I’m spent like cents.
That’s my two pennies; I’d rub them together
to make you warmer, honey. We’ve been together
so long I’m diabetic. You’re my ladybug, butterfly, bread-and-butter;
I hope I’m no tick. You make me sick;
that’s how quick my heart flutters when you speak.
In my lips, you’re an angel. On fingertips,
a dancing angel. Pin me on your Google Maps;
be my apple, my song, my sample:
the Otis to my throne, thriller to my Jones.
Take the mask off could you, please.
The air’s fine now for you to breathe.
