the key chain poem

You were in Mongolia when my 
key
chain
broke.

You know, the one with the face of Matthew Vassar
looking like a dandy man with his 
top
hat 
on.

The one you gave me after you raised the window after
we were making out right before all the
wind
came
in.

The one that got an ink stain on it when my pen exploded 
in my pocket while we were eating milky 
way 
ice
-cream.


But now you are in Mongolia saving souls or maybe just
letting one rest and who is going to fix
my 
key
chain?