While the pic axe shrinks to an ice pic in my shoulder,
My eyeballs swell to beefsteak tomatoes, plumped tight
Pressuring the sockets to give way or tear up and split.
I’ve tapped as many keys as there are doors in this planet.
Day is done. Pace myself. Leave some pages for tomorrow.
Time to puff a two, loosen my belt and lose the jeans, bra
And throw on a tee-shirt. I’ll keep the panties but not these;
They strangle the creases to dead circulation in my thighs.
I’ve gained weight, and they’ve shrunk. They’re sentimental.
She gave them to me with a gleeful glint, when we were a
Thing. A present. I think it was my birthday or may be just
Because. She loved me then, and maybe she still does.
We’re a distant fragrance of passing perfume in a coat;
It’s winter and the cinnamon leaves crackled and died off.
image source/pixabay
In the gaze of the other 