Sketch Pencils and Small Talk

I bummed a drag we cut a smoke you caught my name I made a joke
you tossed your hair and i fixed my chair you crossed your legs and i spoke too soon
you smiled and said something funny and I said something funny and you smiled again
and this went on like a carousel, and people came on for the ride, and got off
but we didn't run out of change we were fresh on this run around
too afraid to motion to you that the carriage next to me had an open seat,
but the horse carriage driver casts such dumb luck dirty looks,
that you just tilt your head my way,
and me well I just shook
and we talk some about music,
mostly just about how stupid
we look when everyone else
is stupid smoking cigarettes.
And I thought before,
about falling in love,
and spending evenings
on mountains,
but never about sweating to get there
or sand in my socks combing dunes
but I think about an outsider's point of view,
or two, and it makes me want---
it makes me feel like maybe I'm not so dried up inside,
and my xyphoid--my eyes, are in for a grand surprise
toes touching tapping to tapes and records
and the sounds of clocks and
hours and paws and hallway ghosts
and lurking laundry-- waking to nothing,
nothing to yawns and stretches morning breaths
kisses-- far off still dreaming, a warm shoulder--
the rain outside seeping though it feels more
and more and more like dew,
and sweet like honey, than anything
that makes you or I feel ugly--
cups of tea as we read and we plead
just to stop in between
paragraphs to paraphrase ideas--
a sunrise like an aurora pops into your lense,
and you obsess with the west,
and a mountain erects into bed,
so enough with our text--
and we work on our accents
to worry less and less about jersey
and the things that can't help but hurt you
and can't help but hurt me.