Whispers raise the wall on nostalgia,
lead-ins ticking off a lonely pensioner
depending on one nice Joe. A step
on the tube in the wrong election
paints the town a lost-cause sauvignon.
Handfuls of Velveeta gather behind a church
a hundred times I won’t, I will, just short
of detritus standing out of class
to write his name a hundred times, no matter
broken enough. We return to a bulletin
of tunas fished to the seed of death.
The sushi, from a long line of Secretariats,
is finely marbled and fresh from a local corral
at least until the Petri chicken is flown in.
May I recommend a man or a woman, but hey, it’s your life.
Nouveau riche penguins drag nature and are taken.
Birds and bees also have tools
and microtransmitters. Possums are marching north,
leave little wind-ups on the back porch.
