Brad Rose

MANNEQUIN IN LOVE


Your touch is gentle as a willow combed by a June breeze, but I feel nothing as you unbutton me. I’m vacant as a mall parking lot on Christmas day.  The Musak is deafening.  I have no idea what sex is.  You lean close and kiss me, as if I am a statue.  One day I hope to bear you children, although I have no idea what children are.
 
























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