I
am the tiny leopard that leaps on high bookcases
When
you are away I am searching for unequaled
Knowledge
in lonely dust covered tomes you don’t
Intend
to read I know so I offer all my gall my tricks
My
savage rage to fake leather-bound books I hate
So
much when you’re gone I march across the high
Ledge
between ceiling and wall toppling three four
Five
your Boston ferns I only lunge at what you keep
Secure
oranges Halifax and tumbrils are my favorite
Words
I won’t become a martyr of your silly chili but
Still
I spill it to show how much I adore your secrets
Your recalcitrant heart and night seems to prefer
Us I say but you say
it’s all about mirepoix and herbs
De Provence and
looking bored while it happens
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