In my own mind you have put me
beside compunction. Re-worked
this mourning room where looking
smacks of mother may I
though to this day I
falter when you hold tow.
Throw me over your deep end
with some faith next time,
as if to lend some bother to the vex.
I’ve always wanted to be grown up
like a bureaucrat, a berth-rider
ordering night caps over the Rockies.
But you keep insisting on day planners,
bodies flat out. Which means, for example,
a random plea. Do some dishes
and get back to me. I’m waiting
at the ripping point
breast in hand, a broken spine
like any sign of care.