Sonnet 86 Always hated that little window-tapper Love with her thousand shots, her quick shades Perched for the fur traders; why be snapper to market morks of urges' masquerades or Texas tea to pigeon yearning. Ha, you say she's a lasso of never-ending red stuff and fish-eyes for heart sweet fire, a railway to all the mustard in this skaters' handcuff. Nah. I say she's no soup for the safe in codgers' college when it's too late to cop the edge, and no one can heel the dive of time or reign in the choker. I've told her to the nines her dodge'll never catch me; I'm past the dredge of angel food, and riding plush on the A train.
|The East Village Poetry Web