Can You Believe That a Poet Would Write This
What do you do with a fried lemon sandwich
when lavender leaves have messed up its hair
How to you cut it in two equal pieces
while no one is home and you don’t like to share
Why is it sitting alone at the counter
as saucers of milk perform on the stage
Where is the flavor when bland is in fashion
and comic books sing on the very next page
Will you surrender to appetites chanting,
crossing the line where the pickets are white
Shoveling corn flakes when it is not snowing,
flying a kernel instead of a kite
Serving a side that is right down the middle,
leftover vegetables mashed into paste
Like a potato but not very filling,
smothered in ketchup to drown out the taste
Do you like tablecloths made out of vinyl,
just like a record but square when they play
Nothing to spin when you can’t find a needle,
looking through stacks that are covered in hay
Cook books too heavy to fit in your diet,
checking your math while subtracting a pound
Running in place when you’d rather be singing,
wishing the dining room table was round
Can you believe that a poet would write this,
watching a hummingbird outside his door
Smiling from one ear but not to the other
feeling the pinch when his cheeks are too sore
Maybe his mind is a field of distraction
perhaps it is someone that he’s thinking of
It’s a safe bet amid all this confusion
the poet who wrote this has fallen in love
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