I Like Spaghetti Because You Don't Have

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

Give Me A Thrill, Says The Reader, Give Me A Kick; I Don't Care How You Succeed, Or What Subject You Pick.

When I Get Sent Manuscripts From Aspiring Poets, I Do One Of Two Things: If There Is No Stamped Self-addressed Envelope, I Throw It Into The Bin.-if There Is, I Write And Tell Them To F**k Off.

And The Case Of Butterflies So Rich It Looks As If All Summer Settled There And Died.

Only One Ship Is Seeking Us, A Black-sailed Unfamiliar, Towing At Her Backa Huge And Birdless Silence. In Her Wakeno Waters Breed Or Break.