I don't know. I was supposed to write someting about bacon.

Bacon
She tells me
Is like pure good.

Rhyming!

Sing a song of twenty dollars
The artist is too poor
When the landlord comes to holler
He heads right out the door.

I like to think of myself
As a plank.
Not a piece of wood
Inert
Cold
Dead.

Rather
I am a plank
the pilates move.
I'm Alive
and I move
Air and blood flows
and I breathe
But I am solid
Grounded
Strong.

Until I lose my focus,
I am strong.

When my mind wanders
or I forget
My Core
I shake
I tremble
And I begin to feel
what a precarious position
I am in.

Rewrite: Steeping

http://onepoemoneday.blogspot.com/2007/01/steeping.html

You drink too much tea
they say,
but you just shrug and pour another cup.

There's something about your tea
that makes me
quiver.

It could be the colour,
a light and clear brown
so different from their muddy coffee;
or the way it trembles
when you set it on the saucer,
like a lover that's just been
pulled away from your lips.

I sympathise.
I remember what it was like
being pulled away from those lips:
the leap in my stomach
and the urge to jump right back at them
that I always
somehow
managed to sublimate.

I think you knew how it felt.
Everytime we pulled apart
you had this mischevious little grin on your face
that said,
I know you want me.

The worst part is
you were right,
and I still do.
I want to be the the leaves
that you turn into clear
brown
tea.