In a certain mood pristine thighs loudly swimming
seemed -- I don't know -- important to me and my loser friends.
In other words, a blissful kind of skull, not dejected but gently
marking time. I had no inspiration.
Not even a memo directing me to the sufficient desk.
So then a thief in raccoon hat approached,
her sweet nape loosely hinged.
Poetry is kind of like that thief,
stealing your shoes while you
draw up lists for future and surprising meals.