Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Pillow Hair. The kind that doesn't tickle.

Let the sidewalk crack,
Let the children play,
Let the crickets chirp,
Let the communists sell their books,
Let the Martha Stewarts of the world lie down at the end of the day,
Unable to sleep
Unable to stop, and
Let me lie here, and smell your hair, and let it all be,

Because I cannot be anywhere else.


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