Granny put my hands in the batter.
“Best to mix biscuits with your fingers.”
But the squishy bread innards
felt filthy,
damp as drawers
wrung out and pinned
on rigid backyard clotheslines.
“Nothing as good as sunshine,”
Granny said. But I wasn’t interested in daylight discussions.
I coveted cavernous places,
deep warm wells,
the arch of drumstick,
quick smack of cymbal.
To swallow the secrets
scribbled on bathroom stalls,
plunge into the sort of fornication
that only rose from a flush,
only bent over after dark.
© khartless 2022, All Rights Reserved
Inspired by MAN CARD by Mick Tomlinson
I promised my father
I’d grow up and learn
some of the things that men do.
For example,
how to throw garage tools
across the garage
when the car won’t fucking start.
Or, how to impress mom
by ruining dinner
with minimal kitchen skills.
But in the end
I became a man and all I have
to show for it
is the ability to parallel park
a poem
between two tight tits
and be proud of it.
COPYRIGHT 2022 Mick Tomlinson
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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