car window cig flickers

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
one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other
among the pebbles and urine-tinged grass
while caretakers are preoccupied
smoking

 

 

what to expect

no one mentions
having children
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

 

 

The Smellephant

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.