Author Information
Comfort
She burns like a field of poppies.
Scarlet nails, lipstick and hair
barely contrast with her skirt
which camouflages into the clear cool world
of early morning.
She cuts my hair with plastic gloves
and sucks the lard out of my protruding gut.
We are the best people in the world
since I write the music that combines melodies
with atmospheric depth.
She is a simple, crude being
but doesn’t examine poorly under a shrinking mirror.
We don’t know about the CIA or grassroots organization.
We do care about the big pictures which we choose not to control.
She taps my glass, and I tap back
as we drink Low-Sugar Hawaiian Punch.
She burns like a field of poppies
because we lit ourselves on fire.
