That moment was the last time I looked for you;
I stopped eying your mouth near.
Hello, I’ll now say. (Maybe even just hey).
You’ll just be the reason for this poem, the 100 blinks
to my reader; no more even to your own eyes right now.

Can’t you just see the woman standing, open heart to the air,
swirling the hem of her dress around her finger–
waiting at the crosswalk for you to take her hand
and lead her back to a new home–
to brand her permanently with care.

Ain’t you got no gumption, boy?
Didn’t your experiences teach you the rarities–
the difference between the wolves, the stalking buzzards seducing with high heels,
the broken records, from a good woman with a selective hunger–
and those like you, eat every tasteless meal placed upon your lap.

You do not love, do you? You cannot (this I see)
you are the needle never found, the haystack at its deepest–
yet the pain of finding you begins that second I stall in search.
You take away breath, yet, you are the crash that caused it all;
Chosen oblivion, selective sight–whatever gives you cake at night.

My dear soul, it yearns for a shell harder than my skin;
It called to you to share this task.
But, you will never labor for anything more than finding yourself.
I, the prey, dismissed as a meal you can postpone after the sweetness of sweat passes–
with you, oblivious to a pulse that once called for you by name. I only sweat after working;

I’m a farmer’s daughter with softened hands.
It takes more than the sun to make me smile,
and a lot less than money to make me claim a permanent chair on the porch.
Give me crop, give me a handkerchief
Or drive on, useless man.

Tick. Tock. Tock. The beating for you stops.
When your wrinkles show, you will ask that someone like me be engrossed in your silver heart–
and we will only be able to respond:
Hey.
How’s It Going. Have a good night. The youth of love could have been yours from the start.
Hope you have a good meal tonight.

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