unfinished...written morning of 11/30

This one’s for the corduroy dress
And how it didn’t tear when I hit the ground
a poet and her 2 a.m. faceplant outside the bar.
Not so glamorous. Not so metaphorical as you might think.
Something they don’t tell you in anthologies
Did Shakespeare ever run into walls during rehearsals?
Did Jane Austen make a Freudian slip
or two?

This one’s for the one who swallowed raw honey
and spit it back at me in a chorus of folk songs
some inappropriate gestures
that might have made me love you
had they been intended for me.
But you skittered across the road like dead leaves
And I couldn’t press you between my pages.