I lick the cheese from the end of my pen.
Some read lovelorn letters on benches
and Beautiful Girls have no reason to look up.

I was a little one
too. My mother
held my hand and led me
forward as I looked
back wishing I could
chase the pigeon
just like you.

If I poured this coffee all
over my face
Say I missed my mouth
Could it burn more
than this sun?

Well, would it eat my pores
and galvanize my metaphors
into fluid flowing from the tip of a tit?
And still, hours later, we chased the pigeons.
With no desultory climax.

“Dad if we walked a million blocks would we die?”