My words were sharp and weary,
It pierced from your burgundy coat.
Chastising your minor malady,
Somewhat to care for an antidote.

You met the dawn after work,
Drowsy and brittle like my fork.
Rested on your Davenport,
Talk to me, back and forth.

Your presence is tangible,
Like branches, unbreakable.
But I was too delicate to punch
As I perched on your branch.

I feel so pathetic,
Talking about agitated things.
Lecturing for what is eccentric,
Until it grazed you to sting.


© Joel Gigante