Where’s Waldo
Emile DeWeaver

On tip-toes I’m tall.
On Tuesdays
I’m a generous man with a cannibal bitch inside my penis,
chomping pink muscles like a bubblegum fiend
Eating her way out a sock.
I fuck. I live
12 minutes from the bus station, but I can’t get it up.
I could rhyme “tough luck,” “stop buck,” “God’s truck,”
and club this poem to dust.
I
Met you once.
You met me Tuesday.
I remember you said my smile killed
Ladies and dressed up in their clothes.
You said that I’m selfish.
That if I wasn’t careful I’d end up all
Loaning a jillion bucks
to stop global warming.
I said tough luck like that
Only happens on Wednesdays.

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