Dead-ended Noodling (and other adventures)

chagrin in my cheeks,
skin scraped and wet
with a trace of deceit
washed off your hands.

seemed nice enough,
with these stories
of how you’d never,
in a decade’s song,
slam the xylophone
when it’s freshwater’s
clarity that reminds us
that no one is to play.

but that gaping mouth,
and lips that shimmer
on a teflon pan in age
lies open to my appeal.

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