The woman whose specialty is curing
worn out running shoes, spits in the open wounds
of the love lorn.
It has something to do with baboons
in the penthouse of the high-rise
and how they found Jesus.
She really needs a window, now, but all I find
is multiples of six and a jar full
of grammar mistakes.
And, on top of that, all the wrong people
answer the cell phone numbers she tones
and her last cigarette set with the sun.
No matter. No one remembers the four dwarves
who are not Dopey, Grumpy and Doc. But
they all like to make up the names anyhow.