Baby’s wearing pink jeans, white chucks, humming Mick’s Emotional Rescue.
My wife steals my socks to wear to bed, but argyles should be just for church.
There are no smokable butts on the streets of Westfield, Massachusetts.
Idyll where my sweetheart lives: Beach, 1990, a crisp linen dress.
Too cold to make it to the gym door in just sweats without “shit” out loud.
We could hear earth vibrate if far enough away and Space transferred sound.
Brought up a topic to announce that I don’t want to talk about it.
So many extension cords and a unlabeled fuse box: clocks are wrong.
The bottle squirts warm milk across your face like zinc oxide, no, warpaint.
I’ll have you all know that I brought that clock from the past to the marriage.
Miser over my horde of every-time it didn’t pan out
If we who are lousy with deep thoughts don’t make fools of such men, who will?
The fan blades spin in your pupils and I in the corner of your eye.