Sunday, July 18, 2010

Pop Star

Just wanna be a pop star
like the one I used to know.

He nursed us sick ones
in Mandarin, dissected frogs,
small engines resurrected,

carved five-leaved roses,
in his desk hid mints and
a sharp shiny scalpel.

A day's growth of beard
scraped like sandpaper
my smooth soft cheeks

grew their own to notice
he wasn't perfect, was he?

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