We will never make it. They ride us
while we try our hands at acupuncture.
You are perforated. You hold things up.
Clinging balls hold things up. We fight
in front of the children again. We are beautiful.
We’re old. We’re in the tea house of a luncheon
our daughter drew and asked us to unfold.
The tea lunch smells like mango:
Stick figure in-laws, be happy!
Laugh. Eat finger-sandwiches
filled with cheese and red pimento.
Get served by the crude giraffe!
You glow. You throw our good plates
during petty disputes, My face is only
a square brick wall: Yes, I did leave
the toilet seat up. We’re increasing our debt.
We’re frocked with gold and purple and green
and eating beignets in the clouds,
the powdered sugar clouds pour from our mouths.
You’ve gone mad. I’m stone drunk.
Homeless snake lady, I don’t care
if you think this is your Big Easy:
Get your anaconda out of my wife’s hair!
We are backwards in line like our son’s E’s.
We’re still in love, aren’t we?
The rain. Gorgeous drops. A kiss in Seattle
before the barbed freeloaders took over
our hearts. We are genuine.
We are misunderstood.
We are removing cockle-burs
from our aortas after the woods.