Tisk Tisk, Mr. Smith

Tisk tisk, Mr. Smith She slapped her hand with the pointer Looking up, I see she’s stern I stand, wishing to anoint her I am commanded to about face I’ve committed an infraction Taking stock of my flesh She swoons in satisfaction But I’m returned to my kitchen Now pouring a cup of Lady Grey

Last Season’s Vintage

Last season’s vintage with coffee stainsSpelling out what we might genuinely needHope we might outlive our transgressionsErrant dispatches; all the ones you forgot to read

We Kept Dancing

We kept dancing Long after the record stopped spinning On the verge of your dreams The fire’s low; the air is thinning What happens tomorrow  & long after we’ve awoken Will these dreams ever return Will this spell be forever broken