It’s good to know you don’t have to paint every town red,
that passing years allow passion its tamer breakthroughs.
The tea kettle is whistling at you and that’s enough
to make you feel sexy, destined yet for love.
Or just a nice hot cut of tea, it makes little difference
now you’ve exited the back door of significance,
unsinged by hellfire burning leather on every dance floor.
You’ve broken through to the face you see in the mirror.