the all-new buick enclave

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Your songs are interesting,
but you are not. Your face is like

a pot—and manners? I don’t know
where you got them, but it was not

from people who know about manners.
Your favorite fruit, you say,

is “bananners.” Your hair descends
all over, like the hours of a boring day,

around shoulders which are like
boulders some farmer decided, perhaps

unwisely, merely to plough around.
And your voice makes almost no sound

as you whisper, “Help me, help, I’m
trapped in here,” as a joke, clearly,

as though your spirit were bound.
Yet I love you dearly, because

you show up when you say you will,
and your eyes emit no death rays,

nor are worms panicking as they crawl
from your earholes. Nor do you work

at Kentucky Fried Chicken. In fact,
you are like some odd goddess,

coming and going as though floating,
as though you’re making a point

of such gracefulness. As though you’re
the protagonist in a Spike Lee Joint.

• • •

 

One Response to “the all-new buick enclave”

  1. Aaron Belz Says:

    Such a good poem. Good work.


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