the shadow on your sheets
is wiry with pool pruned skin;
too accentuate your loneliness,
however dreads the light of day
when you drag it along main street
limp wristed arms twisted
around its neck like a noose.
in the window of the television store
walter lee decrees:
there are two types of people in the world,
the ones who take and the ones who get taken.
walter lee wonders why
your shadow floats unwound with sylvia plath
when it could be getting down
with lorraine hansberry.
its intent is to immolate,
to turn the moisture
of every sunkiss and tear you channel
like them, the shadow on your sheets
wants to be free of its outline.
and cigarette ashes.