Misty Over Milk Shakes
I was a simple picture of a person,
just a gulp of a guy.
She was not my first girl; she was my second.
It was a Dairy Queen date,
banana milkshakes,
me tanking-up on her foggy eyes,
imagining her naked muggy
female parts.
Then that she abruptly
slammed her wet wriggling mind
down on to the plastic tabletop.
A floppy thing it was, with no kapok
or bitty bones.
Her fishiness edged closer to me
as if wanting to be fed. I fled.
That night I dreamed of her bubbly wet kisses
flying like manta rays
above the rooftops of our watery town
seeking out soggy young men
to puddle with.
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