I wish I could imagine
sky filled the space
between his skull,
but that would insult
the window to the moon.
There is coldness in the weeds
that cover his tongue, tiny barbs
he hopes will leave scars.
He hates I never buy a ticket
to his Meme and Repeat, and
that I have a library card where
shelves of history books prove
he’s only a bit actor in a theater of rerun.
It is funny to see him stand naked
while screaming he’s wearing Armani.
Mute is more threat than answer.
The man just doesn’t understand
I know where and how to use my words.
There’s no use in striking a match
when a snowflake is already melting.
©Susie Clevenger 2025
