These Midwestern gals
with apologetic eyes,
don't trust tomorrows.
Pizza sweethearts
who appreciate a blue collar artist
like myself.
Yeah, but they
come close to stolen perfection,
but is that anyway to live life?
I am, indeed, tired,
just like looking good,
however smiles are lucky.
But the morning
will find us
and this poem won't matter.
Certain fine gone gals,
will always be right there,
am I right, write?