strut and stumble, stuck with hands in pockets,
told to toe the line
and the
words that we’re not speaking, left bird-pecked to wither on the vine
and none will sleep
nor intertwine
with no words pressed to make the wine
so
roll the sleeves up,
stitch the missing buttons on your ten cent soul
a second-hand face will stay in place
and weather like a totem pole
save polished stone and cheap cologne
and give me steel and screws in bone
and eyes that say what I forget
and feet that know the way back home.