This is the last family dinner
JR Walsh
“It’s onomatopoeic like booger.”
Mother says it and we all agree.
Amen, sister!
Pick your friend’s nose and hear
the crash. Jupiter is a glockenspiel.
Pluto, a mallet.
Smile until we are chorizo.
Uncle Doctor changes strippers
for the flavor.
“Dentistry is an aphrodisiac.”
“Say wah?” “The chair gets us
drilling sweet.”
Cavities pearl into fillings:
prophylactic pornography for
the toothsome.
There are twelve of us
apologetic and looking for dip
or mud pies.
Shh! is shushed and someone
lights a lighter then explodes
behind a bush.
Whump! The lights go out
outside. We’re running out of
smoky booze.
“Her” nicotine feathers are tarred.
Charade a pterodactyl, or cough.
Alert the sofa.
“Her” has no name here.
Marks carve under the counter
in stuck gum.
“One day, we’ll trade halter tops
with the geniuses and the cops
will stop us.”
Every argument must be formed
with an accent and uniformed.
Or falsetto.
Let’s do declare allegiance to
silent eunuchs and seedy cukes
of the iceberg.
There’s always a dog locked up.
Sequel barks until seized by
Prequel, the cat.
“Main courses are for turkeys.”
The prissiest among us knows
button-pushing.
The floor is bloated and crummy.
A door-to-door vacuum is kaput,
not penniless.
The value of the galaxy is
assessed by bangs and crew cuts
in orbit.
Grandmother’s thorough ass
objects to glorious hairstyles.
Sit on, honey!
Father’s dragging his clubfoot
on dessert. Who will diagnose
the beebread?
The neighbors buzz our knees
in thanksgiving and leave early.
Childless, they fuck.
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