She’d seen him here—she’d see him there—a sweetheart in such disrepair. They’d shown their teeth, they’d make her bleed, still she’d decide the boy her steed. Twelve times she’d tell and they would judge, glacier inside, it wouldn’t budge. She’d said it wrong—not asked it right—he’d swear the bitch just need a fight. He’d see the fool, he knew the dork, a wisdom told him of her cork. She’d need a plow, some hanging noose, to fit inside her fine caboose.
One time or three he’d shown it free—his truest art; her heart’s jumpstart—but first would be the memory which brought it home, just how his dome; that wild bushel of a mind might see a girl the tool to grind. Some place beneath a moon out low, when it had been her turn to go—the boy had laughed right in her face—he’d grown her love to outer space.
