Phantom Poet

I am going to use you for poetry
make a muse of your music, revel in a reason to write want into words, scratch self into stanzas, pen person into phrase.

The phantom poet with fantasies to set free, flying like a thousand red balloons over a windy sunrise city, above Navy Pier and the ferris wheel, a Lake Michigan of faces facing upward as they rise, hands together in an applause of tiny balloon bursts, clapping for the words.

I love this city.

Yes, I am going to use you for poetry.
I will cleanse my legs with your lips and wring my skin out to dry with the wash, reach down deep, past the Haiku, pull out socks and sheets from late last week, fresh with dryer heat, warm with wanting.

This is what I like to do, stroll my girlish self into boys' apartments and use up all their toilet paper. Start a fresh roll, white and plush.
Please, I want to touch. I want to use you for poetry.