poem2.txt

Moisturizer is important to me like a car is important.
I’ll never own a car and skin is incidentally mine.
Truth is, skin seems to manage pretty well on its own.
I only travel in cars to sing to the radio.

My skin is such a brute! It needs a regime!
I need a drink. My car and my skin need a drink. I want to say
ain’t you a cool glass of water. My skin is so dull
and I have no car. My eyes, however, are ritzy.

I favor the non-abrasive. My cult product
is an anti-aging self-emollient. More often
this is new pajamas. But pajamas need multi-talents!
I’m not yet old-old. Thinking of crystal decanters

makes me feel young, they are inscrutable adulthood.
My skin can’t be so bad — sleep is like a drink
and my controls are set to bed. This is my mitigation
against stress, stern weather, assorted irritations.

Being ravaged is my own fault! Proper living
requires routine, tiny adjustments that make life better.
I’m making plans with no muscle to them.
Sleep is no artificial skin, despite its gauzy potential.

Rose water — by the by I’d rather drink it
as the hokey pendulum swings.
I’m looking for something foolproof, aplomb
that withstands the interrogating nude.