You said my nails were nice once-upon-a-time
I’ve been keeping them fine-tuned-to-you Since the beginning of this whole-peeled-and-washed-interlude of curiosity and a five dollar bill.
Laid down on the counter with my-hand-up-your-shirt, getting a price-check! price-check!
Or so I hoped (dear-make-a-wish-foundation)
But you were always more-than-I-could
afford
but I tried anyway because when a pretty-nice-girl looks at you
looks-at-you
you start filing your nails and washing your hair
taking a train into the city and walking 20 minutes for
a-pack-of-gum
but you were just a-pretty-nice-girl
that I could only imagine
dirty-teenage-boy-style
what delights were hidden behind the counter
it was mad-mad-flowing-summer-time
1992
when I became addicted to
Juicy-fruit
and bad-rhyming-poetry
but you were just a pretty-nice-girl
who went away in the fall.
1 comment:
Wow. Just wow. If I wasn't stuck rereading this poem I'd be able to get to the rest of the pieces you posted. You used to say that poetry wasn't your thing, but you're continually proving yourself wrong. I can't say enough. Keep the faith and keep writing; that's enough.
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