A soggy beach ball wedged between cotton sheets
spreads noiseless destruction when left unattended.
It’s hiding from a magnified truth, something once folded
that now imposes a grapevine of extra-strength aspirin.
Semi-deflated and drumming with concern, slippery when wet;
always cornered, cowering from preconceived needles.
B: How did we end up here?
B: I was thinking physically.
P: Well, I guess we need to figure out where ‘here’ is.
B: Good question. France?
P: I’m pretty sure we’re not in France.
P: I was thinking more along the lines of a state of mind.
I: We’re in uncharted territory.
Stalactites still lack tights and make Superman blush.
Suspended, drooling–more powerful than a locomotive.
Air France lost seventeen of its planes last evening.
They’ll show up eventually, they always do.
Setbacks? You lose a couple dollars, you spring back
with a chip on your shoulder. Go get the dip, dearie.
B: Where’s the bartender? I need a drink. What’s that you’ve got there?
P: A caramel-infused jalapeño mojito.
B: Oh dear lord that looks awful.
P: You’d be surprised at just how awful this drink is.
B: Then stop drinking it!
P: I paid for it, genius. Plus, it’s not doing too bad a job. How are you, bud?
B: Thirsty. Bartender!
I: Hey, whadd’ya want?
B: AH! Bartender, were you crouching in front of us this whole time?
I: My name’s Frank. Yes. Now what’ll ya have? I ain’t got all day.
B: Yet you can crouch behind the bar and scare customers. I’ll have what he’s having.
I: I said I ain’t got all day. That drink takes 15 minutes to make.
P: He’s right. I was timing him. You don’t want this anyway, trust me.
B: Give me your best single malt scotch then. Leave the bottle.
B: I told you not to let him go. Didn’t I tell you not to let him go? I definitely told you not to let him go.
P: What’re you groaning about this time?
B: The ice cream man! You heard me say I had to run into the house to grab my wallet. I said ‘don’t let him go after you get your popsicle.’
P: Oh, but I got a sundae. I thought your command was conditional.
B: You gave me the distinct impression that you wanted a frozen water treat, so I said popsicle. This was clearly all my fault.
P: Finally you see the light.
I: I’m still here, guys.
P: Ah! Oh, you scared me half to death, ice cream man!
I: My name is Frank.
B: What an odd name for an ice cream man.
I: Do you want a popsicle or not?
B: Really going for the jugular, Frank. No, I want a sundae.
I: I don’t do sundaes.
B: Then what’s that?
P: Oh right, he calls them mondaes.
B: Jesus, Frank. Give me a mondae then.
I: I hate mondaes.
P: You’ve still got it, Frank. Now get out of here before I call the cops.
B: Can I have my ice cream?
Silent gopher modules grind a bearable decision,
tornado grumbling affidavits bristling on a desk.
Forever where the wit of windows concentrates adroitly,
a cavern stumbles through a platform’s pumpernickel chest.
Similar to a plate of corn-fed double bacon burgers
thrown against the wall to land upon a bed of watercress.