Pentimenti

Sherbet Lemons

You’re looking at me as though I’m enough
to strike your match, hit home;
and it’ll devour you, lungs first
as you watch me, your worst.
Frankenstein, you and
I, your pocket litter.
.
     Ephemera balled in your jeans –
Picasso of your genes.
     You sud yourself neck-deep in
     lemon scented hand soap,
     still hold out one last lathered hope
that you will see me without gasoline.
     There’s a dishwasher between
what you say and what I mean,
     and though you Brillo your forearms raw
     and scour out your washed up wrists,
I’m the pentimenti drying under your skin
that rise as you clench your fists.
.
For those that strike matches

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