For Better

By Russel A Brakefield

This scenery is just a spark, a little black spot on
the edge of my glasses. Baby, just see what I mean
when I say I want to type out our vows on tablecloths
and wear them as slipping wrapped togas to
the reception. The idea that your life is in my hands
makes eating with them out of the question
and self-gratification out of the question. However I am
grinning now at your teeth and thinking of sex. I am
thinking of blowing up your mailbox or telling your father
to pay for your oral surgery because I can't afford to look
anymore. Not when he can afford for me to see the horizon
in a different light and devout of gaping blackened buckets
of fish and water.

 

 

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