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Dancing in the Living Room That is in the Process of Being Remodeled

As I dance in this run down place
of paneling and one coat of varnish,
this place of dirty mirrors and dusty desk,
I'm thinking of you in the frozen food section
of Winn-Dixie, biting repeatedly into that ice-cream
drumstick, licking it with the sweet end of your tongue
      chocolate leaking from your lips.

As I lie listening to some unknown band from Alabama
and it being long past my beauty sleep, I think
of how wholesome you must have smelled
sandwiched between shelves of bread,
how clean you must have been
in the aisle of generic washing powder,
       shower gels not tested on animals.

Your blood reminds me of orange juice freshly squeezed,
all natural with no artificial flavors.
Your arms are beams of sugar cane, legs like beef/pork
sausages when I'm running water for a cold shower,
pressing tarter protection toothpaste
        onto a brush with an angled neck.

Your eyes are kiwi strawberries,
lips more pretty than the checkout girl
who takes your money from the very hands
that reaches in my pants for paradise
as I dance naked in a living room that is in the
         process of being remodeled.

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