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M. Kei, US
With a
cry of,
"Peace on earth, good will to men!"
he flings her picture
into the fireplace
and roasts marshmallows.
Pink was
never her color,
brown too dreary for the living;
the funeral director
paints the vault blue,
her favorite color.
"No, you
may not
set the chalk on fire,"
another day
in the life of a
substitute teacher.
I dig
and brush:
an archaeology of snow
seeking to discover
the secrets of the long lost
Chevy Cavalier.
Old
pond,
frog jumps in—
the sound of
many poets
arguing.
He
doesn’t seem
to understand ‘no’,
so she takes great satisfaction
in lining the catbox
with his letters.
picture
phones?
why would anyone
want to see me
in my boxer shorts
and uncombed hair?
Just as
I admire
the majesty of Canada geese
floating on the bay . . .
they go tails up and
flash white fannies at me
spending
the night
at a small inn,
I discover
all the other guests
are Secret Service agents . . . .
my ex,
he must argue
even about
the beauty
of a waterfall
For a
city
with so many
churches,
it doesn’t know much
about God.
Slipping
my arm
around her waist,
I discover the corset
narrowing her waist
and enlarging my interest.
she asks
the difficult customer,
“Would you like me
to wrap the broom
or will you ride it home?”
there’s
a genie
in every bottle of
José Cuervo
who makes men witty
and women beautiful
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