DULCET TONES AND APE BURP
I’m on the lanai reading
War And Peace. You’re in the garage
reading your name written in pollen
on our Mustang. We have war
sometimes. I’m always right.
Why is that? Do I have that wrong?
And we have peace sometimes.
It feels like a venus flytrap
almost ready to close
around a bug. After many years,
we still have much in common.
We jump into the same underpants
of time and chafe. We kiss, burp,
and nervous dandelions stab us
with yellow knives. Someday
death will open our refrigerator.
Probably hungry. It’s rude
to just walk right in.
But it’s death. We know it
can lick any lock until it melts.