Be my guest, it’s fine.
There’s nothing here
Except a Sarah Vaughn album
I’ve nearly worn out
Playing through heartbreak
or cooking his trout before
he decided enough is enough of what
I don’t know that was not in my score
Although the libretto seems familiar
In that way when things feel off-kilter
And strangely apart from society
Or the norms in their khakis
And button downs, me, I’m imagining crowns
On heads, princesses, broken glass slippers,
Bloodied feet. No, be my guest, finally we meet.