I cannot be unforgiven.
I cannot untie the lesions
Fluttering around pickaxes
Tickling my mind.
I am an unborn, mon amis,
A shackling wreck
Anchoring my finer points
To big firs and pines.
I am a fascinated child
Playing footsie with a wench,
Smiling shyly.
I cannot be unforgiven.
I cannot backfire my heart
And pickle rabbits in garlic water.
I know I’m one letter flying,
B and my C tiger,
Loading box spring mattress sets
Into Ford Ranger pickups.
I cannot be unforgiven
Selling chanterelles,
Those spicy succulent fungi,
To slightly unhealthy social workers
That pick-pocket Pez dispensers
Out of working hard pre-teens.
This mattress does not fly,
These firs do not bend,
This wench does not grin,
And I am not fickle.