discounts
Platinum Wig
What's in my head is under your skin.
Slipping it on like a coat,
wiggling its finger tips into yours.
A king crab rubbed in sun tan oil.
His platinum wig shining the same as the crushed velvet in front of him and his flaking, blue beach chair.
A middle aged, sun spotted lawn.
My dry hands paint a crippled panther onto your face.
Scuttling in my mary janes.
The smell of you shoves my fingers down my throat.
My broken education dragged across my wrists.
I may not know all of the presidents,
but I know a bargain when I see one.
