mouse in the fire parade
you part the willow lips
of the men who trust in sticks.
it's all bare. i crave someone to draw the lines for me to color in the red of the pain, the yellow anxiety, the blue blues. and put numbers inside the outlined shapes; like dance steps ordering the nonsense of poisons dropped into my cup of days. i crave a narrative. a suture.
but maybe i'll settle for cable tv.
raw
child drooling lemonade
never could swallow the sour
of the minute draining the hour.