If I Were a Marianet – for Leaf

To think if I were a marianet,
I’d be loosely attached by hooks on a ceiling,
Waiting my turn to run my dry mouth,
rotating, slowly, forgetting a feeling.

I’d have a peppermint tongue, palms poppy red,
A headful of yarn could use to be died.
Suited in black with a jacket to scratch,
Thick wooden knees, won’t hold straight if they tried.

I would shake off the nail, be carried to stage,
The knots all up top so no one would know.
They’re not tired enough to keep me from leaving,
Rubber feet would lead the clutz that I’d go.

My shoulders would slouch; wooden and square,
Home of the dents where you hung.
I would hum out a tune, while looking aside,
The words had already been sung.

A curtain would draw, in lacking applause,
As my fingers reach for the floors.
Rotating, slowly, as I weaken the pull,
Wishing my strings were still twisted with yours.