Wishes

I wish you
had money,
she said
pausing the
Youtube
beauty tutorial
and smiled an
apple extending
smile tempting
Grace.

You mean you
wish your
sugar daddy
wasn't some
broke ass
nobody knows
him poet.

I just know
you'd buy me
things
if you had
money.

Yes was all
he said,
if I weren't
a poet,
silently implied.

She sat Indian
style in the living
room floor,
cut-off shorts and
a Keep Austin
Wierd tank top,
practiced
putting  on
midnight eyes
and matte liquid
lips made,
it seemed,
for kissing.

And she was a woman.
And she was art.

An object of beauty.
A being full of life.
And he thought
I wish I had money
I'd write poems
for you every night
and you'd forever
be art.