Irregularity is what makes my love like Mona Lisa
the asymmetry of her smile, and all the while
I wonder if she is crooked as the seam of her hose
her nose is real but she won’t let me touch it. Why?
My tongue is a tribute to her thigh. Lustful sonnets
like tiny catapults of rhyme; she says my meter is askew
What can I do with my beat or time to please her eccentricity?
Would she think less of me if I melted into her form of verse?
I know it is a curse to be bored by a reflection of yourself.
A palm bent by the wind knows it and remembers.
The Mona Lisa smiles her odd smile. Styles dismembered.
I have a kind orthodontist. She pulls my teeth in gaseous limbo
and straightens my overbite in tightened increments
not even Picasso can be so cubistic
She has a beauty mark.
