King’s croak and oleo some throatwork that took my mind
off eating jelly with Jif with.
I had to know: do I have soul?
I had to ask the brown one who knew said “son”
through gin baleen then leaned his bulk
to cello squalls, up for air,
breached that deep,
made to scrape
the popcorn ceiling. roof—my mouth’s—
I tongued the mush of Wonder®.
first you bust the shell,
you mash the nut,
you strip the vine, crush concords flat,
you get the loaf, the knife. “son,”
up to his head tone, there goes his baby
who’d know that whiff of fun soon was booze, who’d drift.
I won’t cry, I won’t cry.
that crown of a crooner’s gone now.
I don’t call.