sometimes your words
make me smile like
riding tandem on an
old-fashion’d Schwinn
with color’d plastic tassels

in red white and yellow

watching them play tag
with a smack smack
smacking “you’re it” sound

that was not much different
than the slurppy sounds of

sloppy french kissing

sometimes your words
as so straight that they offer
my inner child about as much
excitement as being stuck

in the back seat of a car
with the windows up,
unable to stick my arm

out the window,

and like a virgin dating

for the very first time
whose abandon’d mama

preach’d  hellfire and brimstone
into her brow, i was disabl’d
from palm-teasing my heartline
with a most flirtatious airflow

sometimes your words are like
rush hour, going nowhere fast,

and wondering why you left

in a  white-hot hurry in the first place

when all you and i knew that we’d just

end up stuck in the left-hand lane
that never has enough room

for give nor take

then we end up on the shoulder
when nails and broken glass
stick into the tire treads
of good intention, leaving us
with a conversation that went

unexpect’dly flat. . .

and as we sit there
looking silly as hell 'cause
all we could interpret 
after all this time is a

sorry excuse of-a

HYS-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-ss-ss. . .ss. . .

© 2005, cynth’ya lewis reed

all rights reserv’d