Frivolous Quill

There’s something, I think, a flap
or flange on a plane that lets its
fuel tanks hold hands across the
wingspan of a particularly strenuous
crossing, and I think about that
flap whenever I make you laugh, or
when you order the Chinese take-out,
and I pick it up.

Once you’ve squozen the recommended
allotment of shampoo relative to hair-girth

into your palm, be careful when letting go
the bottle for its pop-back-reset,

or the mintfused molecules will panic and,
with eucalyptous hands, cling to each

other in a desperate, schlurpy retreat back
into the globuly hive, leaving only an

invigorating, sulfite-free residue in the air,
your hair plastered, and unwashed.

Like the deep-cleansing morning I spent on the
front porch with my coffee and my dog and

suddenly remembered the day my mother changed
the locks on all the doors and my father,

and I hadn’t even showered.