Poem 63

Urn dimes burned around their eisenhower edges
And will not register with the vending machine eye.
Grain alcohol if snakes are reproaching.

My ears popped inflight despite the chewing gum ward.
I make no Freud slips that could tip the dark side balance.

As we coaster out of the mouth of ahab I am reminded of
How the whale hunts the hunter, and without fail, finds its krill.
Now the ship wanes in the mains, loses train of thought
flounders in the doldrum wine glass menagerie.
We are all out of vitamin See.

But wait, I’ve just remembered,
these stanzas are made of minor lines,
and urn dimes can never be returned.


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