Deep mahogany desk
Rifled with pockets
Tucked with cheesiness
And cheers, silent and complete,
Wondering if the past repeats
Or renews a dead thing.
A hint drips
Like heated stew between
Pointed stares and hushed
Ears, lacquered clean by
Pirouetting cats and kittens
Covered in cream.
I jog in place, slipping,
Down a manicured slide
Waiting for the Choctaw
End.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem