backtrack
like a packrat
in a black hat
with a white hat soul
with a quite phat goal
we roll it
like a prison cigarette
like a taco
like a wife in a bedsheet
when the night is cold
love is a steak sandwich
or maybe it’s a bean salad
or maybe its ice cream
or maybe no kind of food stuff at all
zen on a climbing frame
kung fu in a vacuum
ballet in a phone box
and pratfall over banana moments
into an understanding
we ate a fortune cookie
spat out the future
hatched an a magic eightball