30 November 2012


from atlas north to sacrum south
I run in soft curves
an odd-numbered highway perhaps
but a subway, in some ways,
is probably a better

picture the hard outer shell
filled with the soft caramel
and vanilla nugget, sounds like
candy, let’s call them passengers, riding inside,
who spill out at the last

stop just north
of the municipal zoo
nervous commuters on the wrong side of town
their Times rolled tight
like a constable’s baton floating toward

the safety of the cages,
to see the hurdy-gurdy tigers
and the snow leopards, since they are felinophiles,
let’s call them cat lovers, their hands in their pockets
fingering their make-believe

coins, called tokens, and then finally, ultimately, toward
their rank unruly yours untruly
snoring stretching belching roaring
king and queen of everything,
not just jungle, rumbling loins

He said, "Toe-may-toe."
She said, "Tuh-mah-tuh."
He said, "Roaring lions."
She said, "Warring loins."

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