Knives
“Knifes” said Cole
and then fretted about image.
“Serialkillerish” a new word spawn
from the left-hand corner of his mind.
“Too serialkillerish.” Chit-chat of the
evidently wrong sort,
but I don’t mind cutlery
now that I know how to chop onions minus myself.
I’ll likely still cry about it.
Most likely no one will die about it,
and we’ll all go back to shelving books.
Some, we’ll retrieve at the drop of a,
“Name an object found in a kitchen”
moment and wish we hadn't
and if wishes were fishes we’d fillet,
and if wishes were poets, I’ll have the Millay,
and no. My candle doesn't burn at both ends.
Whatever that means.
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