Lydia

17

"and white rubber shoes"

good morning,
yellow teeth

come on out,
full swing against
our skin like fresh milk.

spooning intersection dust like sugar,

I leave behind my lungs,
in the hollow red ashtray of the subway,

like my apple on the table, suffocated by a worm
twisting boa-like around the shiny purple skin.

while daffodils float into their dressing gowns,
and the gulls
don fresh white blouses,

a small one drags her knee across the pavement
in genuflection,

assured.

During the day, my dog waits for his monthly
as the mailbag barks at him,

“not for you, not for you,”

our tongues so tangled in the trees

that we can only wait in the fresh,
white sun,
until the August day we spoil.