Pig trough says, spill your trouble here.
Allow these candy clouds to cotton
Your man’s a sad balloon
and love was an afternoon hovered over
the whack-a-mole. It was precisely that
gave rise to the rubber mallet
and four white knuckles
rapped on wood.
If you don’t know what to do now
with your hands, consider the terror
pealing from the coasters.
Descent demands you stick-em-up.
Metal splinter glints
above, sun-struck jet slicing the ether
completely free to travel
from the turbulence,
inveigled to stay aloft
on fair-weather prayer.
Dear bright lure
softly bobbing on the void,
spare us this stick
of deep fried butter, this pie-spiked shake.
Our tickers can only take so much.
The children comfort their cones
with such gentle tongues
you’d think the ice cream was injured.
Scant tantrums in this
queue. Our helices unspool
but no life’s long enough to host the evolution
and no one’s stepping out of line.
When enervation strikes, just lid your eyes
and apply an ounce of pressure:
you can visit space any time you like.