Little Pleasant Things

It's your face

a comfortable place

that doesn't beg questions

of needing my space

and who can argue

better than you do?

Oh, you're hotter than the Virgin Mary

especially when you're quite contrary

And you'll rip this poem apart,

asking, "What in hell? You call this art?"

It's not meant to invoke some ire

Can't a fellow write when tired?

That playful wink, that lovely laugh

you say, whatever, just put giraffe

You do your thing...

I'm gonna nap

just put your feet

 

up on my lap

 

Because while I'm sitting here catching zen,

I know you'll read this poem again.

 

 

The End

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