The Leaves

Leafs.
Leaves, really,
If you’re being technical,
But is that really what you want to be, baby,
Technical?

Leaves, she said,
On my sleeves, she said,
I think they’re burying me alive!
They were.

Leaves, she cried,
They’re getting in my weave, she said.
The leaves in her weave
And some on her sleeve
Were the odds and ends of the rest
Of the oddest ends.
“I’m not following you,” she claimed.

Before you leave,
Please leave your leaves
On the leaf that expands my table
To its fullest length
Not girth, though! Width, either.
“Aren’t girth and width the same thing?”
Asked Beauregard, bothering me.

Leaves near the door.
Leaves near the window.
Leaves clutter the glove compartment
Of my mind.
There’s not even room for gloves!