“PUNCH”

Red popsicles spill open
from gray paper wrappers
like a zipper down my arm;
To melt in the bathtub
like diamond rings
dropped down a drain.

OOPS.

This mess will require
a professional to be telephoned.
Lots of work needs to be done
to recover what I accidently
MIGHT LOSE.
Oh yes, and lots of scrubbing,
regardless. The landlord will
want this tub to sparkle
as if I had never moved
HERE.

The only evidence of me
on walk through
will be the residue
stuck up inside the fireplace;
Wet and black, like a smoker’s perfume.

AHHH.
But what to do
with these popsicle sticks
and stained pink packaging?
Throw them down the garbage chute
and let the land-fills have me.
I have never felt this sentimental
toward junk food until NOW.

narrative poem written on 11-15-2010 by: on mattkane.com
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