the breezeway.
the way the breeze goes.
the air flows
anyway.

it's not that i don't like it.
i don't like to like it.
i just don't want to want it.
i don't want it.

I spy through your windows and see you there dancing,
all yellow and sunshine, no old friend on your mind.
You have boyfriends and lovers all laughing in your footsteps
eating artichoke and riceballs and marshmallow pie.

And there in the blue and the green and the quiet
with wet grass and worms, things that can't come inside,
I lean on my haunches and mutter to your windows,
"you'll never get in my house, in my house, just try."