If we were that way
I could fix that breezy crack so it doesn’t leak
a bone cold wind on anyone within arm’s reach
again. I’m no drywaller but you’re such
a piece of work it’s hard to not lend a hand.
I’d mend the wall between us and you’d beleive
you were better for it. If you were malleable mud
I’d shape that nub, smooth that lip curl of disgust.
You’d trust my expertise. I’d press you into the wall, fit you on
my sure gliding tool. I’ll make your unevenness flush, pale
and damp to the touch. Later you can pretty yourself up
but for an a few minutes, you’d be mine, if I
were a handyman, and you as malleable
as mud. But neither of us are, are we?