We can’t impart affection using small talk.
Besides, clean perspiration saturates our bed sheets,
I can smell a tattered cocoon which liberated a butterfly
That flew towards the confines of the stucco ceiling
Singing a gospel chorus.
And I have to ask
Is this moment beautiful?
Or should I have tucked
In-between my thighs,
Away from bedside fetal postures.
Should I have attempted gentleman’s conduct
And slept on the floor? Sprinkled with cigarette ashes,
Heaps of banana peels,
And a guardianship of hovering fruit flies
Observing life from a toe’s perspective.
Now the drive home,
Where I analyze each spoken word
Like a linguist pilfering luck for definitions.
I shouldn’t have said that,
Or tried to kiss her in the front seat
But I have explanations for such behavior
Dying alone and other anxious contested quandaries.
Perhaps I should have cried when I blinked-
Listened before smiling-
By tomorrow’s grace
I’ll have slept,
Ignored a suicide attempt,
And convinced whatever dignity
I haven’t thrown with scraps
To the hounds that I will torch
The butterfly and plagiarize his song-
I’ll do it
Just for her.