Jennifer L. Knox

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SO SWEET OUR TEETH ACHE

Daiquiris come

from a drive-thru,

at least

the biggest ones

used to,

and our beer’s magic

as meth.

Let’s get incapacitated

under a tree—

short of that

slowly bleed

to death through

our sock bottoms.

We got nothing

going on at work.

We got no

fresh perspective,

and by the looks

of the stumps

still rotting

in the bear traps on the lawn,

none’s coming.

POSTER IN THE WAITING ROOM: PHANTOM ARM

What are we gonna do about the phantom arm? We could:

A) Ignore it, like we did the dog when it ate the can

of bacon grease and sit tight ‘til you vomit it all back up, or

B) Ignore it, like we did the dog when it ate the can

of bacon grease and sit tight ‘til I vomit it all back up, or

C) “Discuss” it, because there are no “winners” in “discussions,”

just “participants” (who would rather rake their lips

with cheesegraters and clean out their ears with jagged, red-hot rebar), or

D) Maybe there’s a way to make the phantom arm just

disappear. Let’s go to the park while it’s still nice out

and think on this, together, but silently,

with doughnuts.