Maybe a hat’s off to the cap,
battening down firmly my self-
heating temple and its plucky luxury
of memories movement-enriched.
Maybe an homage to buttons keeping
goosebumps off flesh, and me
from clutching garbs as if
they had abandonment in mind.
Maybe a humble treatment of the spoon
whose architecture bridges greasy
bounties of insistent hungers
agreeably stumbling me to the grave.
And a final simple praisesong for ice,
focused in a cube-grid tray, the stout floes
jostled in tumblers awaiting sacrament of
fizz sweet and wrenching, carbonation’s
miraculous mercury wholeness, buoyant.