She's hunched over a screen
tracing a thousand dot trajectory.
A headphoned brunette music queen
in finger flying waving fury.
You're like a little mouse.
Not meek, but small. Quiet. Beige.
But not beige like a suburban house.
Tan and hinted russet. Heart encaged.
A frame that purses lips
and is drunk off one glass red,
kind and timid woven strips
of colored passion- and dread.
No, I haven't seen any watermelons here.
But it's okay that you can't steer.
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