Avert thine oil-painting eyes,
Lower thy tapestretic voice.
Contain the casual mane and
oh, for the last time
Be still! fluttering fingers;
Mute the shimmer up and down
The wiry neck.
They might then no longer follow
With wide eyes...
Cooing, adoring, anxious pigeons
Fattened on platony.
Then might my used-up-crayon eyes
And finger-painted song
And polite hair
And stubby sweaty fingers
Become adorable in thy Child heart:
A heart that could teach me to play.
This game is a spelling bee--
I misspell "Truth"
So I can sit down early.
No comments:
Post a Comment