because it's national poetry month,
and i'm a sucker.
your teeth and those chips make an awfully nice pair.
but not as nice as that string on your shoulder from my underwear.
i'm not sure if it's the febreze or the cotton
that makes me cling, cling, cling on,
but i know you'll get a giggle out of those last two words.
though i'm out, but not all there yet, the ripping shreds
inside my head still replay as i lie in bed.
it's never easy, quick or simple,
but counting my calories is giving me pimples.
so here i go to write about race,
as i pull on my happy face,
or as happy as my face can be
when i really, really have to pee.
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