wet laces

sometimes a bootlicker is who I want to be.

Without you,
my dog takes her morning walks on streets of gold,
past the gates of alabaster and sheen.

Still, I chase--
cars when the light shifts
apparitions-- clouds of gasoline.

My lungs
they don't care
that my skin feels the warmth.

With your opium laced gloves--Kill my garden, just keep my violets
And my forehead will meet
your wet shoelaces.