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Provenance is a trick,
a tailor-made tale for the tourist
that flock, to gawk
at my vacillations.
They come
to lean into my damp hair,
to toy with my damp face,
to pry upon my damp lips.
To swallow another mouthful...
Something forgetful,
something awful,
like provenance
and other tricks by owned things.
Come, come...
I have a tale
and it's your turn to gawk.
YOU ARE READING
Bedtime Prophecies
PoetryPoetic perceptions from a dissociative identity poet. Clearing the wardrobe to find a missing ring; found you instead in my discard pile.
