Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Poem: Constance


Keep expecting the glitter to go dry,
the charm to wear off,
the smile to fade beigely I am
not accustomed to such consistency.

Flash of eyes across the
bar speaking volumes:

I am the driver of a
moonglow cool and I use
it only on you and what you
need to do is follow your
feet to my proximity or I will
stare you into a pile of goo.

Again. And again.

From the collection Fields of Satchmo 
Photo by MJV

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