Lay down,
back plane to the woodwork,
a craftsman tongue for your post-war groove.
Sawdust snatch,
tangerine crow's foot,
the hammer come to nail -
insert crude caulk joke here.

Oh what a gladitorial exercise,
I came to drive the point home darlin'
gonna make sure to change that gait!

Then one day suddenly
my soul will drop into you
to drown in scents and bathe in milk.

You'll grow ever deeper.

There will be no way to fill up the depths of your expanse;
you'll become an atonal song
that I'll briefly hum but
never give
words.

But relax,

I'll still fist twist those pigtails,
my fingers in your mouth,
good girl, tongue out, all of that thing...
just this time I'll know not to linger.

It seems the heart cools more quickly than
the bedsheet.

So go ahead:

I'll provide the service and

you charge by the

hour.