I would trade for a better dessert,
Trade it in for the white skirted waitress.
Her chocolate and cream holds its own allure
So does thirty three footsteps
When there are bullies in the play ground.
Give me a hop for good measure.
Instead of snapping gum in this cold depression
Between Sir Hillary’s expedition and the cold comfort
Of sliding home alive, I could be still as a pond
Crouching under a roof of stalactites,
Dodging the icy daggers that pin me to my word.
Summer rain comes so seldom, especially now
Under the January skies of the northern hemisphere.
My unwashed hair chides me to trade it for a better season
Trade it in for apple blossoms and hummingbirds
and wilted lettuce salads.
But these icy daggers have their own allure,
They hide me from the bullies – across the playground
now chasing the scent of some other prey.
I’ll give it a hop for good measure.
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