My house is an ellipse–
a home without an edge.
I’m keen to bark at my girl’s heels,
lick her kneeballs,
cradle her love ladle…
whatever the case may be.
Chicken scrap dinner table barters
if I’m a good boy.
Or I thumb through her underpants catalogue
where sex is sold solidly two dimensional
and comes with a free tote bag.
Internal rhyme is a crime of fashion,
taken out of context like a hairpiece,
a hex-feast of grab bag vernacular
rotting in my brain.
I’m bored of curves and wet crevices;
I’m tired of weddings,
of funnel cakes,
of crock pot beef,
and of caring about fleece sales
and programming the T.V.
to record feats of anorexic
collagen collages in high def.
(Definitely no more absolutes)
Tired of underused basement stairs
and credit card bills,
always credit card bills.
I don’t dream of colonized children
hanging from my limbs like Spanish moss.
I’m putting her heart in a bag
and hailing a cab from the front porch.