The Benson Basement

Who is that dashing young man in the mirror
winking and shooting that classy thumbs-up?
Who is that hovering nearer and nearer
to utter perfection, up, up and up?

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Writing is like having a tooth pulled
        with a fishing line
but instead of right there in my mouth,
the tooth is somewhere in my chest
and it’s gotta come all the way up and out
and I guess it’s not really a tooth anyway.

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He stands on her porch, heart galloping.
He leans in - his lips meet hers.
Fiery hair and cerulean eyes splash his face with color.
Wildflowers erupt in his chest, blooming like fireworks.

PAUSE.
REPLACE REDHEAD WITH BRUNETTE.
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Like a shabby marriage renewed in terminal illness
My love for you is reborn in your dawning senility.

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