If you were willing to tackle me
I could love you like a gypsy.
I'd be hell bent on redeeming you
and unearthing your fallacies
waving them good-bye
from my covered wagon.
Or nibbling toast cautiously behind
the makeshift frank stand at the bay
in the glistening noonday sun,
my reflection lathering you twice
and mentally dining teeth first into
the succulent truth that is by far