Royally so, He Said, and Heinous Not To

Greg Glazner

You're not a shoehorn over-jonesing for the shoe,
or oozing like a spikenard, overeager
as an Easter weasel in the egg yard.

What's one more day of Hey I'm busy, or at the tops, two? -
you could produce impressive trash from paperwork, noodle
  your guitar...
Royally so, he said, and heinous not to.

You're not some over-bubbling barrel full of crude,
or mooning when a minor moan would do,
although her whisper stones you to your brainstem.

You're not a shoehorn over-jonesing for the shoe,
although your eyelids flash, and it thunders, and the bed frame's
spastic, and roiling froth's already over-juicing multitudes

of tree wells. Royally so, he said, and heinous not to.
You were never overpruned, you're not some leafed-out
  staked thing
leaping on its leashes to be wet up in the rain-