People keep lies in their pockets like
bubble gum packs.
I tell a lie and my heart pounds, my nose grows
I need to get spanked.
I can lie like a jazz singer,
it’s the 1920’s, sliding in humid Chicago bars.
I am a little girl, wonderfully scared
Nothing can be wrapped up as perfectly
as bodies, naked on blue Sunday mornings,
no year and nothing to do,
but straddle our time.