Let's play a game.
           If I were a body
           part, which would I be?

Legs.

           Legs?

Disembodied legs. Well, hips
too. Ready to pick up and run
like a cartoon or a possessed
mannequin finally free
of its austere torso, capped
by a head that was only interested
in looking away from the customers
as if to say, "You can't afford
to buy anything I'm wearing.
It would be best if you left."

You'd be those matte plastic legs
running through the revolving doors,
down the streets, until the pavement
ends, until the grass takes over,
and there you would kick yourself
a hole, bury yourself
to the knees and fancy
that you were a stump.
You'd wait there peacefully smiling,
yet vaguely disturbing, waiting
for two weary lovers to have you
as a picnic table or a young child
to do a solitary dance on you,
to use you.

           Let's play another game.
           Let's race, to see
           who gets old first.

What would I be?

           Oh. You'd be the ass
           that finally sits on me.