by shane carreon
I will try to please you by saying all the things
neat and filthy with a caveat that I am holding
the towel in one hand and a bucket with a hairline crack
in the other as I look, eyes on the ledge
following the ant parade, and wait for the worm
to make its way out of the can.
Do you want me
to add bacon, fatty beside the eggs that could not help
being yolky because everything else
is always better with bacon,
except when the neighbor next door runs out of butter
which is not a fact because we don’t have neighbors—
look, there’s a stain on the toilet—we don’t know
the people next door compared to the radio announcer
whom we listen to everyday complain
about how the man has done it again.
Who knows what he means, but your father will Hmph!
which is something you and I can be sure of. I whisper
to myself how much I love
the Kardashians and how they make me feel
the world is alright the way it already is, hanging with zits
proclaiming love your body, love your body, love I will please you
by allowing the neat and filthy and blowing
something warm and lovely into your mouth, knowing
any moment now your mother will find us out.