Armrest
Waving at an armrest
in the bus parked
at the rear of our house,
it strikes me how beautiful
my wife is.
She loves me.
And you talk of beautiful paintings.
Poems. Let me tell you
beauty can't be contained.
Inflamed as I am
with brandy
and flat coke,
I know this now.
When you allocate
beauty to a thing
you're shafting the light,
wedging the door.
My wife and I intend to complain
about the invasion of our privacy.
We won't have much luck.
That's why I snapped the bus
and'll use it for evidence
of the fact that you'll never know
how beautiful my wife is.
She loves me and I know why.
I've shafted the light
and wedged the door
with my head.
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