Don't try flattering me;
don't tell me Pittsburgh is Paris.
Inside me there's a closed factory where my smiles pile up,
each one tied up in court, edgy as a man with a pushy mistress.
Bruce Springsteen came by today.
He claims you shoplifted photographs of his ex-wife,
giving them each a coral ankle bracelet and a tube of sand.
If it looks like a thing, it is that thing, and twice on Sunday ain't that right?
In the weird bookstore of alternate honeymoons,
I discovered your secret blue clarinet hidden in a cloak.
I was a waitress once, I still know what you want before you ask
but I'm slow in bringing it, resentful, bitchy, getting old.
You are good solid maple, I am balsa,
but it's you who jumps at noise that's just kids ripping us off.
Send me into our future, I'll go and even curb my tongue--
the only thing I had that seemed fine and wild and mine enough.
Inside the closed factory where my smiles pile up,
I cock-teased the lawyers until they gave up their writs.
Bruce and I went down to The River where I found my ring--
I roll it like my back ain't got no bones, home to you, to us, to this.
from wisteria's Patti Smith word list, for this