Daily, Chewy kindly reminds me that Max, our dog,
dreams of bones brought to him over a bridge of cash,
covered in the remnants of things our tongues have never tasted.

Then strange men from Double List send nude revelations
taken by their phone because no one is left to call. Respectfully,
a picture is returned.

Next, I’m reading a poem from a friend and mourning the years
scientists say we will never have.

My Viagra will arrive by 9 PM, incognito in a plain brown box
like the casket of an Amish child.

I have until Thursday to complete the contract for a poem that
turned them inside out, something gay bears call fisting.

Hungry for lies, and their beautiful snouts filled with Midwest mud
I’ll end the day with spam.