You are so much mood music—
Humoresque, etc.
You lift shadows from other
people's faces to be hidden.
Still, you talk a speechy line,
a real church routine,

Today s about virtue—
mending the bad malted milk balls
of yesterday—the ones that are chewy
instead of crunchy. Sometimes I
marvel at the breathing space
life provides, the whispers
that are ticklish to listen to—
you don't even have to understand
and it's beautiful.

I yawn a bit
and a little blood leaks off your cheek.
It's my shtick—
holding out being three-fourths of the crime.

You pause and dimes start popping
in your pockets. Under your nose,
a little wrinkle. In this thriving
economy, you are only trying to steal
what we'd all be happy to give.