suspended between an inching glance and a
constant fluttering of hands
i shake coolness from neck

                    room shrinks small
  as does room
in my chair, so
the only room for solace
is the thought of
   sitting back and
        falling through
                    the floor


i have long since realized your goal
as you
meld my comfort into a matchbox and
slide it into your pocket, to
light for later

from early years i’ve been taught to
tuck resistant words
into folds of rose petals and
present them to all in unswerving gratitude
but perhaps that isn’t enough
to satisfy that
ache in your crotch
or your head or
wherever you bridle

      that pesky ego


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