On Sitting at a Different Desk

A little like a child salivating at
the thought of buttered toast –
regarded by a one-eyed ogre slavering
and rubbing palms at this dark joyful
opportunity: oh! – how he loves
to roast and eat small children
salivating at the thought of buttered toast! –

regarded by a slice of buttered
toast permitted temporary sentience
and the doughy vague presentiment
surprising in its dim allure that its small
destiny might lead securely to
a little child’s hungry stomach,
first – to burst then in an ogre’s mouth:

then be encompassed by a verbal thirst
for the amalgamated three that
dangerously puts them in deliciously
ridiculous relationship to me: promising
what, with a tweak and jerk, might soon
turn into bright poetic quirk. I think
I’ve found a place to do my work.


.