Streets seem tired,
city, at rest.
We move through balloons,
confetti, Moët,
leftover eggrolls,
last night’s jest.
EXPLORE
I’d Rather Have My Ass Slapped Than My Ribcage
I rather would.
It'd be stern,
but tender;
no broken bones
nor bruises,
only a disciplined hand
swift with love;
I rather would
it leave a sting that's
fast and fathering.
