Captain
Right down the line
is a gravy boat
filled with starch
bleached like shirts
at a cleaners, and spill the whole thing down
between my tits
because personhood
is bitten silver from the bullet, a
spoon bent back with every passing year
and no choice but to get aboard and feel the warmth
as though they could propel—
and yet
It is simply too easy to mind your own damn business. To spin for once,
I think there is no use yanking on a red string when the other
end
is tied to a
four-wheeled
wagon.
We’d be better off sailing
around the world in a canoe for two,
bitter orange life vests puffed up
in lieu of chests, scissors in hand
for when the wagon sinks like a —~~
/
cruise
ship
|
anchor.