Anything you give, she already has
demanded, anything you bring her,
she has specified. You do not spritz,
nor do you surprise.
Anything you might prefer to add
to her replete approach,
swiftly, quietly becomes
past tense.
Anything she wants you may imagine,
she will shift by whim.
You do not add,
you do not activate, you do not thrive.
Anything you chant, she has already
sung. Rungs on the ladder to her bliss,
remain invisible histoire,
your flimsy repertoire.
Sheila E. Murphy
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