Nameless

There are words that become old friends.
There are words that become bitter enemies.
I like saying cobbler and pebbled street
Savouring them on my tongue like new candy to a child
I like saying cougar too.
Cougar, cougar, cougar.
Not like the woman with a teenaged daughter
Sagging and perky, sticking out.
Red lips and pink lips hiding age and youth alike.
No, not cougar like that.
Cougar, more like the instinctive animal.
Cobbler more like a man of stories
Than a mechanic of shoes.
Pebbled street where I can walk barefeet
And feel the alternating cool and hot,
Like fresh cookies and an oreo shake.
I could never say 'supercalifragilisticexpialidocious'
Without sounding overly rich
Like a young man with drug money
His father gave him after severing a derelict's head.
I like my people the same way too.
Not long twisting carboard cut-outs you could buy at the mall.
More scented like fresh earth on a wet morning day.

This is how I can fill up those empty spaces
That jut out like abandoned shop windows in me.
This is how I will continue
To say words. Cobbler, pebbled street and cougar.