It’s like all the bits that were left from a previous meal,
Jumbled up in a ceramic dish
And left in the oven overnight,
And when you find them it’s like they were just too much
For their intended dishes,
But too good to be trashed,
And although they may not last in individual head-lands
As long as the songs
They were cut from
They’ll flesh out less handsome letters into better pieces
Than they could have been,
And find a use after all.
And then there are snippets of overheard conversations
That alone would be worthless
But together can be treasured,
Like the story of Britain’s influence far outweighing its size
Over the course of it’s
Two thousand year voyage,
Or my lover getting caught in over powering Chicago heat
Once all the morning clouds
Had left along her route,
And then she said she’s not really such a naughty girl,
She just plays one on t.v.
For me and my appetite,
And I’ve just reiterated such on Skype right now as I type
These random thoughts
For you fuse together.
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