I am the sort-of,
Decrepit from too much
Sun, and running still, would
Throw myself into the
Pestilential creek to
Avoid oncoming bikers;
Dive into briers entirely of
Thorns, just to avoid the onslaught
Of trafficing cars;
Race, though exhausted,
By crosswalks to appease
A temperamental green light.
I am the sort
Of pleasing ass-kisser—
Eye-sweating sycophant—
Who dulls my beautiful and
Personal smile as you wish;
I un-love to be loved, if
You should want;
And if this scruffy red shirt
Doesn’t match my shoes,
I hate red.
I have poured myself out
Of me—
And little more than
Split ends and detritus
Accommodate on.