Cut Rate

When it’s a good day to cut out our tongues
I’ll give you a call and tell you
we can spend the afternoon that way
and wash down the beer with our blood
from then on
to each other we’ll be bound
walking down the street with one another
the people we pass will say “there’s those guys with no tongues”
as you are probably well aware
that’s not the sort of stigma a man’s much likely to escape
the main problem is
I’ve always had too much to say
and no matter how good the day
I doubt it will be ever good enough
some small fault
like a breeze from the east
an errant flap of a flag or
the shadow of a hawk across a peach
and I’ll decide
a better day will come
not a good one, but perfect
that’s what you want to wait for
and just like that
our glossectomy stops short
and we babble on
under the sun
a perfect day made only so by another tale to tell
the beer washes down words
off the tips of our pink wet tongues
keeping us apart
divisible individuals
separate in the gaze of others
we walk down the street


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