Accused of graft,
buried in Beatles albums,
I wait, hopeful, with literary grace,
that I can, one day,
be good, not great.
Zephyrance is not a word,
but it should be,
stolen away, from time to time,
times to shine,
and songs about frailty.
I would wake up,
call 11 a bullshit number,
lick her track marks,
and put on a chocolate sweatshirt
to end this shit.