i think of the lips i’ve kissed, your bronze baby is always a crosswalk behind, but...

your bronze baby is always a crosswalk behind, but your plastic bags and sweaters contain the secret commitment concealed beneath a scowl and a knitted cap. your baggage is crinkling with confusion but reassuring in its transparency providing only a thin barrier for gravelling asphalt insults to penetrate. where is your home, princess? and what wrinkled knees lie underneath your skirts