Maybe he'll adopt our children
It doesn't work, the doorbell. Quick, act busy and thinner. He's here.
Chop your jib with greens, the world champion of mildew is here.
Wring out the spare light. Patch the jealous trellis asleep.
Liquid flutes pan for mold, undermining the promise of grout.
You are the flour, denied a fry. Accusations flash strobes,
child. Intensity is unaccountability; they are terrycloth cousins.
Placecards still flowering on backorder, we'll point the baguettes
until he drinks, until he drinks, until he drinks your bottoms up.
Cue the dates and wheatgrass sauté and cherubim trumpeting argosy.
Until he drinks, our chunk light cucumber pâté will have to sate.