I don’t get any news from the whether reports

gone viral in old Bob Frost’s neck of the woulds.


I have been quarantined for far too long

reading Sappho; now I have a foot fetish.


I am getting my biceps measured by a vulgar tailor

because I believe in wearing my heart on my sleaze.


I am quiet at first, but once I get to know nobody

I become a keening siren: I sing of my neediness,

but only swans swim by to honk their horns at me.

I can't wait to walk down the isle into the miry sea.


That anyone needed to agree to pour alcohol on the rocks

separating us at these gatherings makes me feel stranger.

I predict a goofy boss will tell one liner after one liner

throughout the next meeting until he jokes us all out.


I know we all believe it is better to serve in hell

where there are still jobs than float up to heaven

where there are not any people who have work,

but this means of screening people is ridiculous!


Why would a poet ever bail out his or her heart?

The tide flattens. The moon curves to the dark.

Nothing will be revealed if and when I unmask.


Dearly beloved, I should have told you that this song is a fake.

I just never found the right time to tell you the juke was on you.