My mouth is dry. My smile slides
off as rain on the trough.  My tongue's
wrung as a sponge. My cheeks

are hollow. I've swallowed heaps of
loss. I'm about to toss my cookies. Men
only look at the rookies. My cherry-bomb

lips have slipped up a on ***** and rhyme,
on when and lime. Still, I bait my pen with
who and how. And what and where

hang in the air as a stormy cloud. I prep them
with lemon and thyme, sage and line. But the years
haven't shone on me, not even grown on me.
They’re all a broken bough.