Olives are still (annul wives well)


I loves subj.-vb. disagrmt cause it’s wrong like me,
and I disagreed with Joni K. Freed,
who said we should divest, though
all neckkisses I invested never fully vested.
At night, no massages, only ample swathing,

bighand-painting olive-colored breasts,
the whitewash I swore was funner than not and got
took, her taken naked from me
by enemy psychology that said
Don’t stand by his bi brain, no gain, again.
In therapy she pictured a man named Bill
who, pillow-skilled, would fill me w/his ilk.

Wasn’t this sex the best guess?
Our 6 months’ breaking was so thorough (1 month longer
than cementing), I gots no stately parables
to literate a lady who was little (5 ft. O) less
than my best love, and in whose belly

I wanted my baby more than a man
soaking sun wants an olive-brown tan.
I loves her still,
an illwise will.
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Moocat le Meaux's poetry has been featured in New Delta Review and at readings at such places as Acme Book Company in Baton Rouge, La., probably long before you were born.