Kazoo Serenade

The last nice thing you said to me

was “Your breath smells
like vodka,”

as I hummed at you

through a kazoo.
It was an

original composition;

maybe not

technically perfect—

I wasn’t concerned

with mechanics.
Who needs rules

when there are kazoos in the world?

I did an accompanying jig

on a cracked patch

of sidewalk.

Why is cement

always damp
on summer nights? It made such a

satisfying smack

against my bare-feet,

cool and wet,

like the familiar kiss

of a person I rarely see.

I could have danced circles around you

all night

until we were both too dizzy to know

melody from moment,

beauty from spit and plastic.

Instead, I unbuttoned the pocket

on your shirt, and slipped the kazoo inside.

I don’t need retrospect

to tell me

you don’t deserve

a kazoo serenade. Oh I wish

it was about deserve

and not desire.