The peckerwoods are blossoming—this heat
Is perfect for them, clears their rosy limbs,
A scent of gravy with a hint of lime,
Creaking with all the weight of special sauce.
Me, I just can't transport a whole lot more
Compressed into this stringy frame, a touch
Of spirit in a wealth of this-and-that.
I'm thinking chastely of a new frontier,
Out where the rumpus rooms are naugahyde,
With attic vases all the way downstairs,
Where Indians bear cobras in their packs,
And landsmen dance the shabbos hully-gully.
It's just a myth, a brackish aspiration.
I'll choogle to the fridge, but nothing more.
Next year the Thousand Islands and a hope
At long last I can be consumed with relish.
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