Your tongue’s  
a burglary kit.

Your language
spins and steals. 

cracked safes

and opened rooms,
and all you did

was speak.
I take inventory,

trying to decide
what is missing;

nothing, it appears.
In fact some things

long thought lost
are in fact here now.

In fact, the rooms
are rearranged but full,

all the doors
still close when needed,

and all the dials on all the safes
still spin, endlessly

creating new combinations
for you to test and try.

You are forever breaking
all my locks, all my little codes. 

The sound of your voice
picking its way in. Your hands

turning and turning upon me;
then, the sound

of the heavy door
swinging wide.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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