She quotes a Samba Mapangala song
Takes a pose, kisses the wind, and tells me
“Boy, no woman will love you still”.
I mighty have come there secretly expecting a ghost
But not quite clear shaven and moody as you were.
Is that ghosts are so empty of charm
They play music in my sleep.
A little bit of lemon-flavor potato chips
Glassy words, simples pleasures, iota of
Angels in a bathroom.
From the way she offers sympathy
the shopkeeper knows me in a different light
cramped paper in my purse
friends I keep under the canvas.