It is late
And the weather is Decembered.
Yes, that's not really a word,
But bear with me.
In a place with a warmth and a love,
And it's small but we call it home,
And I'm wondering how easy it would be
To fall out into that Decembered weather,
And so I'm typing out a distillation of
My skills, these little talents I have,
(And maybe a white lie or two for seasoning)
Trying to say,
Choose me! Pick me! Take me!
Me! Me! Me!
With as much dignity as a pup
Nosed-pressed to a pet store window
And I imagine you,
Reading this summation of my self:
Who is he that we need him?
Who is he to be trusted
With our time, money, and responsibilities?
And there are other hims and hers out there
Tugging at your sleeve,
Begging for your blessing
And they all have warm little homes
That they love, too,
And I hate them, wish they'd go away
Because they are a distraction
That tries to steal your eyes away
From me, me, oh please this time me!
All I can do is give you this
Here-I-am sheet of paper
Hoping that it will suffice to tell you
That I am the one you want.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
It is late