that lady, my friend, she
loves in Calendars, she
marks the weekends off
when she "gives herself
for the first time," each
time.
she sat me down once, and
said, "I love each month a
new man, I make love each
weekend to a new man," and
I saw yellow, a chip of gold
in her eyes, it unfolded like
a fortune and crumbled softly,
as softly as any
condemned
fruition.
i said she'd make any street
straight of she drove through,
I said I knew she knew what she
was doing and so did everyone
else and not a lip twitched not
a sight of any slight not a single
pull seize or shiver, because like
an ensemble it was worn and played
just that way to keep cold hands
wanting warmth.
