this gorgeous but flaky gal
who lives in a field of deers
keeps me interested
with Instagram photos
in which I zoom in on her lips.
to my bottled up axe,
I will find another grind,
but don't look back
on the forgotten future,
because it is never never yesterland.
complacent in reproach,
too old to proselytize,
too jaded to do anything but observe,
out of fear of a hatchet wound
across my wayward heart.
the scars are still there,
running north and south,
beast and best,
from mouth to manhood,
and I wonder if she sees I am good.