Cutie

They too, shear from me Time, and without whimper and most, without remorse, wear It as a hair tie and flick goodbye –
On each steal across the lawn, like Amish lovers in the blue of Night, mine eyes will never cry.
And they look most ready for the heat of a boy’s bed in August –
I tell you it’s true. You believe me. It’s true.

The passing of grass brushes under, over, down across and up against every toe of yours – illuminating the lacquer so carefully placed by mother or sister.                                                     
The beauty. The cutie, buried in brushstrokes –
A girl so righteously alone.

Feral and liberated, these wild creatures in Time bubble with sores. They brush them off and so do I. Who placed them there? They flee, like all things, eventually.
They kiss me sweet, mechanically. With, try as I may, underwhelming jousts of my gift-horse tongue, I mumble;
“When will morning come?”

She’s a brooding tick, my girl is.
In a backyard of blondes you could pluck her out – just fine – for under His thumb, alas, even her excrements are forged from ingots of gold.
And I deserve better, so often have I been told. But what could be better, here, than dancing with a mistake I still have the arms to hold?
She’s a real drainer.
Mother, with your guidance, I now swim alone.