Thursday, January 27, 2011

Untitled. (As in, I'm still a Ms.)

Tell God I'm waiting:
for a man with a notebook in one hand
and responsibility firmly gripped in the other.

A good man:
the one my mother daydreams will carry me off
in some chariot,
or Benz,
or SB Dunk summer walk.

Cool enough to offer his sweater,
warm enough to dwindle on somebody's pavement.

I wished you,
between a diary page and pen.
Played hide & seek with your fruition
in these fools that tried to imitate you.

But I ain't no amateur,
I can spot a fake from a mile away.