The girl who smokes by the bay window.
Excellent knee caps disturb dead clouds,
Black birds fly clean through her head.
“How’d I do now?” I ask.
She smiles, little button teeth through smoke.
“You’re a’ight Nigerian man, just a’ight.”
“I told you I found a cure.”
A jungle lay around her little Lilith ankles.
And between her plush lush,
A rainforest stirs in sleep,
The brutes behave,
The air is powder.
Absent any smaller joys,
Absent any international wars,
Absent any soapbox evangelists,
And union men making fine, great threats,
I hunt down my knickers under the bed,
Some yellow-eyed brute of a cat jumps and I run for the door,
Flaccid member in one hand,
Knickers in another.
She smiles, coughs through smoke.
Some of us need this,
And a naked girl who smokes by the bay window.
I don’t need much to believe.
This is it, this is it.
There is some mileage left on my soul,
Nothing left for the wife singing across the Atlantic.
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