You can’t always be in the mood for seasonal vegetables,
nor is there justification for the quantity of frozen
cauliflower rice in your fridge. Someone once told me
I couldn’t use the word fridge in a poem, and there’s no
justification for that, either. Be a pal and hand me a paring knife.
Etched into the walls: tally marks for every time you dream
of white sugar, flour, snow. It’s funny to think about forgiving
fabrics, i.e., bless me, nylon, for I have this bloated region
where ribs should be, raised and ready to xylophone. Hit me
with your felted mallet; it will knock the gnawed eraser out
of my mouth. Hit me with your best shot, baby, one more time.
Do you find music helpful? Does it add to your neuroses? Trying
to decide if this is disorderly conduct, conductor. Hit me with
your little baton. The music, much like my eye socket, swells.