there’s a tostada in my living room

And by living room I mean that place

in my head where my tongue rolls around

the new words it hasn’t let out yet.

The ones that aren’t housebroken. 

The ordinary ones glide out on the ice

like snotty figure skaters, holding hands

in matching mittens.  It’s disgusting, the

self-assuredness with which they pirouette

off the edge of my lips.  I’d rather sit

in the overstuffed couch of words like

pumpernickel, whackinate, some of them

ugly enough to merit their own chairs.

Some will never leave this room, the made

up ones, the one that stands in the corner

kicking the door.  They don’t understand

how much I need them there, in the room

without windows, with their big shoes and

eyebrows.  I need them so much it hurts

to lock the door and throw another key away.