You need more space.

You are adamant.


Sitting at the kitchen table

at 4 AM, moments

of pause and stare,

which were never an issue,

now hang like August air

over your 3 cubic feet.


The square footage

of your surface,

a tougher estimate –

worth the trouble –

is Brazilian waxed,

moves on legs all men follow,

and you know it.

You know your space.


Our space jointly,

intensely, decreases

the more of me

is inside of you.

Total ‘O’ – your phrase,

takes on the new

curious calibration

of less space.


In silent calculations,

fiddling with

the wine cork,

you, teasing the cork screw,

appendages slightly askew –

I am adamant –


I’ll trade more for less.

I need less space.


2 replies on “Barter”

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