Dew

The morning is bright
and the sunlight burns
and the dawn too close
to be a pleasant memory.
The lamppost asks
“Don’t you want somebody to trust?”
and I think about it
because there is a Don’t Walk sign ahead
with cars rushing before me as punctuation.

“I do,”
I say quietly to the essay on the lamppost,
“I want somebody to trust
to love
to shove me all over the place.
I want peace.
I want sex.
I want to be somewhere else for a while.
I want to get along
I want to go to Disneyland
I want to be your dog
– in that I want to piss all over you,
you fucking lamppost
with your fucking religious pamphlets
too fucking early in the ass-fucking morning.”

The light has changed,
barely visible with the sun behind it,
but I can make do
and so make my way due East
into the morning.

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