Gigolo His Plath Poem by James McLain

Learning where to walk the dog, walks me.
Which is more eccentric wearing shoes.
Compelled by an oppressive chihuahua.
Knitting me the strangest looking socks.

It is best to keep her shadow of the valley warm.
Besides getting your fingers stuck, bowling balls.
In the beginning of every older book, a yellow page.
She,
I found opening a box of pretty white each titled artist.

Skilled but not like that enough one, mixes drinks.
Fed a hand full of supplements and thrice a day.
I am safe walking nude on the thirteenth floor.
There are no pictures here as well, across the way.

Eating snails I wash them down with eggs yolks.
Sagging some,
I lift them up and hang them over looking down.

The metal their feels warm but cool as the radio
plays some jazz
as the trombone is sliding back against the wall.

Danna shores lays off in Tampa Bay and makes me
wonder why
Miama is two hundred miles away.
Lighting up her Doral, 'she puffs away
as time slips by, I shut my eyes and moan
as the record skips a beat, she wonders why I sigh.