Plastic Rain

It’s night when I picture us
window looped with tinsel
cranked by a solitary hand
red, wax-sealed wrist
raining that plastic rain
when I picture us kissing

On wine-stained sheets
I picture us
I picture the bedpost
you sling your ties over
jellybeans and flamingo feet
I make pickles once a month
and you pinch me on the arm
because this place is too small
for so much vinegar

I ask you to lick my fingers
when I picture us
and also when I don’t

I want to take you to my hometown
show you the old men
in the soft hats
who come on Tuesday nights
reading poems written at thirty-two
when they were this in love
with everything but themselves

There is so much
I don’t want you to see
when I picture us kissing

I ask you to lick my fingers
when I picture us
and also when I don’t
because I get the feeling
you’ve seen right through the rain
straight to that wax-sealed hand
cropped at the wrist
and spinning me towards you

Endless, endless, endless

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