Please Take a Moment to Locate the Exits

King of the Night, he is.  He doesn’t like you.

He doesn’t like your backstory.  Your charm,

Like Bottom’s bottom, isn’t something special.

The mists of midnight blow away.  You stand

In the Aisle of Target, looking for your shoes

On shelves of mouthwash, rodent spray, and cans

Of 3-in-1.  King of the Night, he says,

“Wet cleanup on Aisle 7, where the lute

And zither sale  has just concluded.   Please

Exit the store, and, listen, don’t come back.”

Non Plussed Ultra

Something’s not right--the dog has too many legs,

The poet is rhyming punch with anaconda,

You in an iron mask, a gun in hand,

Thought balloons overhead. Alarming stuff

For those not yet acquainted with the dog,

Whose genial nature only wants to please.

A centipede for love. A friend in need.

But why not a sword, which better suits the mask,

If not the miniskirt, balloons so full,

They’re raining everywhere, the proper nouns

And action words. The poet is nonplussed.

Nevertheless, each sun must have its day

To shine on its constituents and tell

Its tale, or maybe that’s the comet, come

And gone, not to return, until next time.

And, no, conclusion has not come. Not yet.

Not while an aunt is upstairs rhyming fish

And threatening to wed the chest of drawers.

Something will come of this, something sublime,

Like peonies or chifforobes in flames.