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Leo Lie

A squinty, smoking Leo leans against
my chilly cheek sequestered to the floor.
A photo movie Romeo condensed
to four by six dimensions tells no more
a story than the antiquated key
I clench inside my hand. An echo ache,
murmured mistake, a mystery empty,
elusive as this riddle room. What breaks
it down: handwritten “ticket to the moon.”
Your Honeymooner threat about a box
of oak unlocked, LA postmark, one I swoon
since Gilbert Grape who sent a pic of cock.
You took that picture with you yesterday.
I’d lied ten years that it was thrown away.

(This sonnet is a lie. Leonardo DiCaprio never sent me a picture of his cock. No lawsuits please.)

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