Chicano Poet

Monday, July 07, 2008

The Supper

You make meatloaf for supper
while God tries to make it a sin.

The angels carry candles
in their armpits, the sweet smell

is wafting even now into yesterday.
I drink the world through a straw,

the spider web desert should be great,
the unabashed mailslot

on the front door would serve
as all we know, imagine that,

and it’s been hard as hell
but I’ve learned to breathe carbon monoxide.

I’ve learned to pause before
I send the moon to borrow sugar

from that curvy blonde next door
whose husband is always away on business.

I hear our cars in the garage
practicing their jumps, their squats,

chin ups, what the hell are we running here?
I manage one more bite.


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