Friday, September 06, 2002

My demands are many and his abilities limited.
His needs are simple and my generosity stilted.
Pray how do I make a life?
He likes my hair. And the way it curls.
And my legs. And the way they move.
And my head. And the way it rambles.
He likes most of the package.
Familiar territory. I know my way through this.

He did too. Liked the way I made my path. And lived through his days. Made his years go away.
And spoke with the unafraid countenance of innocence.

Take it away, lads!

I like the way I cry. And bend and break.
I like what I cannot see.
I don't like this. Just too pretty.
It's all his pretty picture