the last acceptable lifestyle litter
pauses momentarily in the Matrix
fight choreography air
before gravity stomps it
to the asphalt
where it briefly flares
like a solitary meteor
mistaken for a sexy-cool shooting star
before being vacuumed
up into the guts
of my shuddering eco-friendly vehicle
then somersaulting on foam butt
to unforgiving shoulder
where it lies in soggy stasis
limp with lipstick
attracting curious puppies
and children with keen senses playing
among the pebbles and urine-tinged grass
while caretakers are preoccupied
no one mentions
means no surplus
time or money
to escape and watch
a fucking movie
in whine-free, surround sound
on the big screen
enjoying someone else’s sticky floors
with your shoes on
A smellephant lives down the lane.
He’s got home cooking on the brain.
He cannot cook. He has four feet,
better for marching down the street.
Besides, he doesn’t know a pan
from the lid of a garbage can.
When his belly starts to rumble,
door-to-door, he’ll sniff and stumble
after potatoes and juicy roast,
or coffee and some eggs on toast.
Hear his trumpet, let him in,
or a trampling might begin;
of gardens, and of outdoor toys.
Don’t hide your food, or make a noise.
Just place it gently out the door,
so the smellephant will not roar.
He’ll gobble it in seconds flat,
then be as docile as a cat.