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.