A Person
A person is not a place,
where the bicep between the crooks
of the elbow and the chest is
where you let your head rest
on your personal neck pillow
A person is not a scent,
whose familiar smell still lingers
but who’s comfort you pray
will be refreshed by his return from Omaha
before it quietly fades
A person is not a shirt,
who’s soft and faded threads
are remembered only in close focus
being the towel you dried your tears
draped over a freckled shoulder for years
A person is not a tool-belt,
who’s responsibility leaves sores
on the hipbones from the sexiest
dick-swinging accessory
you’ve ever seen in your life
A person is not a pair of painters pants,
that worn and faded from the year before
you try sewing and patching its knee holes
before giving in to the expense of two new ones
only to find they’re not quite the right size
A person is not a pair of shoes,
who’s neatly tied bows or residues of mud
tell you exactly what
is in store for the day
and what will be the mood
A person is not a place,
a person is a person
and can never be replaced
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