the streets are
melted butter to

your knife-like
walk,

you’re oblivious
to my kindergarten talk

I’m religious
to your cause

trying to get
my claws into

the essence of
you – your every

word is true.
my very word

is false, still
every line I

write is for
you. (you never

did ask, it’s true).
you’re a fire-dancer

and all my dreams
are up in smoke

which is why I’m
down here, scratching

out another bogus
poem. (with love).