Little Cart With A Whip

to and fro

written while bored stiff during a lecture on Leibniz. poem’s got nothing to do with Leibniz.

its about to
and fro
to and fro
to and fro

her long curly hair will shed
the soap suds
the rinse cycle
hurts

it wasnt pink, pink doesnt exist.
or maybe it was debunked
after it was ingrained

debunked
debunk
debunked
debunk

run to open the door
pull her out by her hair
but pull her out.

too late, she is stained red.
i am colored red.
she is neither bright nor dark
red is bright and dark
frankenstein?
no, mary shelley.

well ok. ok ok ok.
with your green self-
see my self
with your green self, erupt.

erupt into soapsuds again,
slippery
so he can skate on your curls
and trip.

debunking
debunked
debunk
debunking
debunking
debunk

is he red now?
im perfectly red on my own
enhanced?
only bruised.

green!

like you?
like me!
like you?
like me she whispered wistfully as the people lazed by the rue fontaine
where the aroma from the coffee was diluted by the mist that preceded the
dew that precedes the dawn that has not yet seen the lovers to sleep
because the pages of the novel were wet, the harlequin stamp embossed by the tears of being discredited,

but try
because to and fro
to and fro
to and fro
equals trip

when he will be done-
never i
at least i would have been done.

at least?
that was debunked after it hurt.
just stay green.
beautiful red,
anyway the mistletoe was ruined in the wash.