the stories of approach i could tell you.
i could amuse you.
but their compliments only leave me with almost-certain-emptiness.
so i leave ‘em
with the varying colours of male-suitors askin’ what i ain’t buyin’
on the front door mat.
smoke signal vowels to France.
i don’t know if that big city man is good for me.
don’t think i ever gave a damn bout bein’ good.
let’s face almost-certain-damnation for that sweet city man
and those thievin beautiful eyes i do love.