You move through me like beluga whales and red tulips,
possibly whole oceans color your slender calves
when you don stilettos
(so inappropriate in the morning.)
Heroines of West-side antics, we kick soda cans
down rain-washed alleyways, purr like rogue cats
hell-bent on cream and cramming all we can into that
We splash in puddles of nowhere, sully the maestro’s
majestic (pristine) art. Original synthesis, the muddied blue.
Fishnet stockings and tennis shoes,
we romp through consumer forests like Zen monks on holiday.
Predictable cannabis and Polly wants a cracker. Beautiful boys
on mopeds really move us, the sensual zigzag of raw fumes,
tourist trolley show-offs, disco glitter and sweet wet grass
where we roll like maniacs in the park at the edge of town.
You know what happiness is when you forget your name
and someone snaps our picture because we’re famous
in our own minds, patchouli-drenched, on fire for lucky gambit
and the subtlety of sly pigeons gleaning the curb.