Spit Under Shoe

The Broken-In do many tricks,

Betray how broken they are.


Slip on spit under shoe,

Fall to knees raw from use.


Safe conversion of things—female to folio—

Does little, if anything, to move heart from floor.


Oh, December, she is here;

A burn haunting a tongue ashen.


A youth misspent on blues.

A blue of every broken hue.


The blue of our bed;

Sleep forgets—of us, what’s left?


Broken tricks, wearing thin, &

Betray themselves. It’s far too late.


So collect me from under bar stools &

One day maybe I’ll find a new heart to move.


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