Your mouth is full of applesauce
or peanut butter or mashed potato.
You’re talking while you eat.
And although I can decipher
what words you’re trying to say
if I pay it some attention,
I mustn’t invite you to sit at this table.
Because you are a mismatch.
Because you are both components.
You are both the machine
and the product.

You strike me as a switch.
Your eagerness to please.
But I doubt you excel in either which way
because there will always be doubt.
Because the immediate past.
Suffice it to say I prefer the real deals.
Constancy in spite of ideal.
You’re always up there in that window.
I noticed you there one day
looking down as I walked past.
Anytime I walk by now, I glance.

Maybe if you come out some time.
More often.



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