Apology
Remember the time
in seventh grade
I told you to go take
a flying fuck
at a rolling purple donut?
You may well have had it coming
Buster, blood red teeth of a stiletto
comb sheathed in your hip pocket
Tapering to menace
a shoulder blade
Your practiced sneer
I think in pictures like Temple Grandin
a curse and a gift I’ve managed
to keep under my hat
Fresh from the fat of the deep
fryer, the one from Homer Price
caroming down the street
Nauseatingly sweet, steel
belted radial, purple as prose
violet as a vase of asters
Wobbly as bad rhyme
easily outpacing the intervening
fifty-odd years
All of it now, at our age, a leap of faith
timing a victim of creaking
joints and crusty synapses
Besides, I said it purely for pleasure
Words exquisitely paired, rolling off my tongue
ahead of such a satisfying heartbeat of syllables
that even you would be able to appreciate.
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