If Love Were a Slurpee, I Would Pour It Down a Black Hole

I should feast on myself
instead of this mold.

But I tremble
in my 60 inch home, and
my stomach roars,
so I excavate
that garbage can
for bulletproof French bread,
for a scrap of banana
beneath any primate,
for a smeared and smooshed
hot dog that resembles
a steamrolled clown.

John Keats, Home Run Hitter

I sit, legs crossed,
pencil twitching, trying
to be John Keats
as three engines thrum,
mechanics sling shouts
over drilling, their voices popping
like 95 mile per hour fastballs
in a catcher’s mitt.
“DIDJA SEE— GAME?”
“— DODGERS BLEW IT!”
“LISTEN— CHOPPY
TRANSMISSION!”
I sit, and swing.