of the army green canvas flap
are the archaic warnings
of a language evolved:
"Wahr! Behr wehr! Be Ware!"
As clouds move toward the moon
it is timed as though expected,
before a few crane beaks of the cell-
touch the ground after finding an apt spot.
To lay claim to hunting for food
eating the debris as emus beaks.
It won't be crab this time,
as we search for somewhere appropriate
to dine while getting to know each other.
You absolutely cannot stand the hostess,
of this buffet of thoughts and success.
Instead , you choose for me to peruse
your portfolio of surfboard logos,
while we dine on your rabid gossip
of failures and almost chances.
Inwardly, I cannot tell you-
just how completely disgusted I am.
Your pleas and begging me not to leave,
are as crocodiles I wish to avoid.
...Do me a huge favor, please-
...Lose my number!
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