I am a woven basket fallen under a shelf, behind a vacuum –
like an ant that finds a Cheerio, but topples in the hole.
How dark and wheaty that would be,
the air so red-velvet-rich, I want to eat my way through;
how desperately fulfilling THAT would be!
I am nothing like a basket, actually—
rather a clear drink dispenser, only the nozzle’s broke,
flimsy thing, and tea leaks when everyone
is around with a thirst that nobody has time for.
Southern tea, where women push their tiny laced gloves
into the grass, catching bits of sweetened lemon bits
between the eyelets, so they suck the finger tips dry—
Oh, Cindy, what a hot mess you’ve made!
Not my monkey, not my circus.
Cindy, what are you going to do with yourself?
Oh you know,
Sunday I’ll see two mountains nuzzle
right up on each other, but not kiss, not that day—
I’ll buy a box of donuts that look just like home,
fried and gold, glaze a day old.
Home in a donut, what a sweet little turn-key.
See, all my days are good days
with Ice Cube’s as a reference.
But I’m still in the Cheerio!
A small voice from a dark hole;
Click on a table lamp—let’s start again.