I will shape my palms into a cup
to shield that foyer in ears
from cries in the pond
I still hear.
How a thing like that
casts my heart 'cross the floor,
and I am empty,
scrambling on all fours.
"What a shame,"
Allison would say.
Yet I will do nothing,
because that's how I fare
when I feel sapped.
My fire slowly wears
from this routine quarantine.
I pine for Delaware.
And I will tell them that same saga,
our trysting heap hush'd between.
Though l'affaire du coeur,
truss'd, I glean.
How a thing like that
casts my heart 'cross the floor,
and I am empty,
scrambling on all fours.
O, what would Allison say?
Still, I will do nothing
because that's how I fare
when I heed their probe,
yet I pine for his stare.
Why can't we swell from the scraps?
Deliver me to Delaware.
