Legs

Bresson's Martine's Legs, 1968.

Thoughts are complex, but the words that share them are simple,
no need for butterflies, just branston pickle
crossword puzzles and dust beams lit by sunny skies

There is not much time
you don't believe me, but I know
my life is half gone, I ramble, still wasting it

I drew a picture of you once, it looked like shit
like most things, the effort was there and the moment stays with me
you were on the couch, reading a book you still recommend
I started with your legs, the edge of the paper slicing your neck
relieving me of the pressure to complete your face
tonight I will dig through the stuff and find that picture
it will speak, but only to me

it was smoky, they used to let you smoke in bars back then
the music was loud and by the end of night my throat was cooked
perhaps then that is why I did not hear the voice saying,
"she will hurt you"