one solid cheek
the other gaunt but bristled
pressed splat together
center of the dash
like the Lord intended
left hand at 10:00
on the Babybel wheel
right one in mine or between
these old tennis balls for knees
I asked you if we’d drive like this
to the gas station on 67th and you said
we’ll drive like this all the way to Miramar Parkway —
we almost did, y’know, and when our two-headed sweater
ripped, it was to spread cheer and faux mean-muggin’ on red
honey butter smeared on Martin’s, man oh man
my Billy Bee, cuts and moves so lean, sliced like brie;
Weston is almost over and Europe is coming to a close —
it’s funny, you threw me on the big friendly giant couch
and it flipped over and I wobbled my legs in the air
you asked if I was going to write about this on metanoia museum
and I figure, what a winner, and I still won’t stop laughing
