Glass
When you are so hot
You melt, I want to blow you
Into a bottle.
You’re a work in progress.
Cradle
I’d cradle you
As the base for a corded telephone;
You wish you were cordless,
Resting wherever convenience finds you.
Manindar P. S. Suri
(from his third chapbook, Poetry My Wife Hates – Third in a Series)
(from his third chapbook, Poetry My Wife Hates – Third in a Series)
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