I’ve written other poems about ice-cream.
Now I’m writing this one.
I like rainbow sprinkles on my sundaes.
I have never called them jimmies and I never will.
I believe this poem is over before it’s even begun like this world and the next one.
I believe Christ was a real bad mother, but he also was a teacher and a healer and a deliverer of that which cannot be sowed.
The fire burns internally and that’s why you’ll never see the damage caused when your eyes are bigger than your warring stomach.
She had a sheepish look on her face when we made love. Does it make me a bad person that this look pushed me ever onward and made me love her even harder?
I’ve written other poems about desert landscapes and the wrought iron fences around each and every last one.
Now I plan to escape before this one leaves my thirst unquenched and my hunger undiminished.
I like to listen to Judy Garland eight days a week.
I have never thought much of Paul McCartney, but the other Beatles most definitely hold a special place in my frozen-confection-heart.