Jeffry Jensen
THE RUBBER VARIETY
Crime in a Dixie cup and a safari across the shell
hole of a hankering for Heaven to take the plunge in
a nasty nodule buried in the burlap left at the desk where
dogs go to eat corn flakes and cheese chunks with
epoch banana sweetness submitting to standard
testing with a number 2 pencil leaking honey twice on
Sunday and served to catfish in a creamy sauce with
a distant doorway 8 miles longer than the average
Mother’s Day parade squeezing out miracles on its
knees inside of a third-class trickle down a pant
leg with waffles taking the side of a maelstrom on
stem rooted revelation behind a screen of taffy
love and lingering brushes with toy trains in a circular
intention of concrete orchid raspy spit too close to
my toothbrush in mid-flight from throbbing cheek to
parrot chin knockers cushioned by cat vengeance and
loneliness pirating the top drawer of the runway to
weepy sideways discontent of the rubber variety.
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