Wish-wakened, wind-hastened
wisp-whim—
here I am.
For what dark conspiracies
have you conjured me?

Don't use me long,
expect too much,
for I'm light-of-mind,
a harum-scarum fellow,
dusty husk not much
more substantial
than a moonbeam, ma'am.

Oh, so it's for that, then,
that you bid me rise
from my soft bed of self-stuff
and shake a leg?

I comply,
press your hands
between these vacant gloves,
tousle your hefty hair,
confide almost-somethings
into your ear.
Just don't request a
candlelit romancing;
where flames flaunt their fervor
you'll never find me.

Alas, now I'm the worse for wear.
One o'clock shadow shades
my rag-bag cheek,
a button eye
has popped its thread,
my wheaten locks scatter

to the four corners of the air.
Breeze bows me, madame,
at my waist.
I bid adieu
before your ardor
has undone me quite.