Woodwork

I am attempting to drop
back into the woodwork at her
request. Soles of the feet
to the knees,
then she comes a knockin'.
I'm working for knees to
the teeth here. Teeth to
my halo, but she comes a knockin'.
She comes a poundin'.
On nights like these an
apparition can really appreciate a
drunken slumber.
Shes got one hand laced through
my thick hair and the
other hand set for leverage
on nine letters that compose one word.
Teeth to knees.
The back of my eyelids tell a story. Its validity is
unknown, but its probability is high.
It is a hasty escape and a
hesitant return.
Knees to soles.
She spits the truth
in the same fashion as me:
lies.
What would be all the more
riotous would be if she kerplunked her means of
communication in
the toilette and then
rinsed it off in the sink.
Or if she pissed on it.
Either or would apply to the
joke I am applying and either
could occur in her location at that time.
Soles to chest.
Splinters fly from the jackhammer beat
of my ticker.
What is done can be undone
in the most uncomfortable of fashions.
I know that in roughly a gross of hours
she will be in contact to tell of her wonderful
week.
The candy and kisses and presents and laughs
and flowers and movies and even dinner perhaps.
I long to be privy to such information.
I yearn for nausea.
I beg to be the unsuspecting victim of a pitfall.
The sticks are poems
and the leaves are letters.
Chest to teeth.
This hole covered over is the woodwork
and its got no bottom.
When its gone its gone Babydoll.
Its long gone for a long time coming.
Teeth to eyes.
Eyes to halo.
Back into the woodwork,
for you.