Crayola Crayon Time
I prefer them a bit tattered and tired.
(a slow lick on a hard knife edge).
A midnight she cat, sparkling like a pinwheel.
The kind that makes you obsess,
why they're one hour and five minutes late.
Why their mascara is off center.
Why they have that strange strong scent.
I like them a little mousy,
a little off the beat.
A chick that can spit with class.
Kick the living MAN out of me.
A fireball that contorts and concocts,
attends to every want and need...
(You know what I mean).
In the end, what I really need is periwinkle predictability.
A Crisco-oiled apron, the one mamma used to don.
A deep-fried lullaby in the quiet cove of a racing mind...
I want to go way back into Crayola Crayon time.
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