This old house gasps great steady gulps
of rain ready wind
to hold it, musty and close
For dull blue daze ahead.
Our decadence is presumed
when there aren’t enough Swedes
to go around,
or give us eggs, hardly-boiled.
So here we are, let’s
break the sky,
sipping icy lemons, renew traces,
perspiring of athletes’ expirations.
I burned my tongue on chocolate
kept eating anyway.
I don’t know why she let you
dress me, when I didn’t know
better or worse. Maybe,
this time, it won’t hurt so bad.