4.28.22

poetry

yea, to be pierced thorugh the heart
would kill me, and a deep enough cut
would bleed me dry out in the cold
or anywhere, after enough time

I am corrosion-resistent, at least,
and my skin stays supple in the rain
though it tears on the briars
and my bones and teeth are free of rust
even as they flex under their own weight
or grind to a flat, respectively

but I don’t have to tell you any of this
wrapped in your long coat bouncing
down a boulveard at 4am and waving off the car
as it flags you down to offer
to get you home a little dryer

so our feet hurt now but for what it’s worth
we won’t have to worry about oil
in the joints in the morning or
a protective coating like we would a wrench
I will simply wrest a bit tomorrow
but I don’t have to tell you any of this