It’s not

the kiss of coffee

or the glancing touch of feathered down,

or first sunlight shared

like sections of the newspaper.

 

Yes, I’m through with that.

 

It’s not

about the sweet kingdom of cantaloupe,

or the curvature

along your foot or shoulder bone.

Our planet is flat,

 

And we shall never go to the moon.

 

It is

exactly what it is not.

The skillet sings a backward tune,

the toast unburns

and the yolk becomes it singular self

once again.

 

Please, pass the salt

 

for the wound.

Serve me up

all the reasons why we should,

and I will make an entire meal

out of veto and

 

Let’s not.