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Rusted handles of non-fiction I could
never get a handle on and breaks
in between piles of autumn leaves
clumped together by Zephyr's wind
keeps an empty feeling inside of me,
a hindrance and bashful resentment
coming to full force by the
building impressions of stress -
even in moderation, it's not best to
exist, I insist, I insist.

They make those jeans for skinny
white girls, she says.
They make those jeans for skinny
girls, I muse, leaving Race at the
door, for I know of the Chinese
who slink through tiny cracks
in the floors and of Indians
wearing bindi proudly who impress
the idea of small, of small create.
And you leave sentiments of unswerving
devotion at the door, useless and
thoroughly overdone in topical conversations
since years past. These differences

create lovely gaps for us, crossing
chasms with toothpicks and thread; I'm
no MacGyver and you're no Dreamgirls,
but you wouldn't believe it if I showed
you the credits to the movie and years
of Broadway performance – your name
reads nowhere on the Playbills, do you see?

I never beat Super Mario Brothers and
the Princess is still locked away in the
castle. Little wonder the bitterness
stays put so well on your tongue, my Princess.