My Car, My House
My car, my crappy house, the job I loathe
and clothes I wear, the girl I say I love
and rarely really speak to; fitted glove
that deadens all my senses, all I loathe
and praise at once is part of living, most
of all my woman, jailer, savior, saint.
I own her, yet she owns me. Could I paint
a breathing body-not this quiet host.
Copyright © Jake A. | Year Posted 2017
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