I Want A Girl Who Is Petite Poem by Ian Blake

One day these catacombs will be exhumed,
and then they’ll carbon-date me
still coiled in my sleeping bag.
Next time I race you up the stairs
I’ll take three at a time, and
I’ll sit in the dunce cap of the obelisk.
Through my conversations with your echo,
I’ve learned your shadow’s shoe size.
I venture that the place is tastefully done,
but the logic can’t escape me:
if you liked the pieces in the hall so much,
then they’d be in your bedroom.