Her Problem

This is the instant morning star of my heart. My arms and albums written and re-written because they were not good enough for you and only do I now know that they would never be. You held it out to me. You had it in for me. I am twisting here waiting to be re-ignited to be re-activated in your motor fire burning inside a tire’s eyes spinning out; we are winning. The War. The Way. The One Who Should Be King. The man who took us back from the baby-shower when your sister was crying in the backseat. What was her problem anyway.