You brown-eyed bangle,
dangling off of car hoods, bent into curves.
What perches on your ribcage? Birds or hearts?
Three of clubs?
You hide behind those wide aviators
so that no one can read your eyes,
but you leave your soft underbelly
your unblemished teeth bared.
You are some kind of jumble,
a collection of fold on fabric fold.
You are beats and sounds,
from the land of laugh-tracks.
You are wrapped in your spangled banner
which has lost its meaning,
and have learned to worship
the guitar string and the synth.
Like a puma, you pick out your prey,
and then growl deep beneath your brown hair.
Ignorant sounds that are rich and deep.
Ignorant sounds that are pretty to the eye,
and memorable to the mouth.