Hey mister, anybody ever tell you
that in a long, tall glass of water
you're the chunk of lime?
Legs like legends, unspooling,
and your concentration's blurry
and your clothes are ironed sharp,
all lines and angles and
protractions, a whole made up of fractions,
mathematical, leaning precise
in the decadent magnolia air,
in the bowed mahogany sound,
in the softness of spring
you are clear as ice, cut right
and reflecting the starlight that
no one else looks to see.