Lint

How I love the man who cleans my lint
He sits beside me clucking as he strokes
"Do you fell better now?" he asks
My black skirt ripples in his lap

I would build a boat for him
Skim the seas with scarlet sails
I'd give him gold butterflies--
Twine them in his beard

But I sit still, sated, stupefied
And that is why he does the work
He always does when my body
Has not yet risen with the dawn.