Three's

Every thing must come in three’s,

In we’s, not I’s. There is a toppling with

Two’s, it is common sense. A barbed

Brace on biology, a verdant rug

Determined. This is what we find.

Then, multiply two breasts by three,

Adding gravity, squared, side by 

Side. A spaghettification of sorts. O

Estrogen, so wise, so wise. You gave them

A tool, each one, to clot the ticks in my life.

Three faces bright by a monitor. And 

Six hands preoccupied. Knuckles

Knobbed, noxious. Girls, girls, why

Must you so tactfully itch to command?

Unzip the marble coffers, you’ve been

Stiff, sedentary every time the

Pool depicts.

You are busy, with a linear 

Career. I admire it, the fastidious 

Whispers of your instruments. 

Three notes. Triple-pitch.

String, stretch, scissor. No

Collective dither, you are aplomb

In your measurement. The whoosh,

The snip, the glint off the shear.

And three serrated grins in the 

Void of a slipstream. Girls, Girls. You’ve 

Defined. You’ve awaited the last of this

Inch. Oh yes, you've clinched the deadline.  


© 2014 BENJAMIN SMITH