each scratch in the top of the table,
entranced and making me quiet.
I am not a man; just some kind of fool.
my only way to give back
is through these eastern bird sleeping songs
that I call poems or scuffles.
Sam sees me on disk display,
strokes her uterus, saying
leave me alone for the last time.
the backs of my beers itch,
and I am made of wood,
keep sharp stuff out of reach.
cargo shorts are not back in style,
but I wear them because I found them
the other day in a parking lot.
I love it all so much,
it sounds like we would have a great deal
to say to each other.
lets go back in time
and touch hair
back there.