Spring Cleaning

Rake your hair, shake the debris
into bags and store them beneath your eyes.
Paint your cheeks the azure of the skies.
Open the cupola windows-
it's gotten a bit close up there
having been shut all year.
(but what does that have to do with the price of gas?)
and into your winter-weary mouth slip teeth
that cleave fast to your god-given gums.
Let the syringa have its way with you.
Take your pills, give yourself a shot
flick a quarter to the bums-
not much, you, true,
but, baby, you're all you've got.

poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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