Could it not be enough,
To bite the bullet and take the time to spread the butter just right?
To set aside a moment –
Or perhaps, if feeling ambitious, two and
Assemble the loaf for final operation and apply
Too much jam.
Let it ooze so – Splotch!
Big dollops of sticky red land on your granite countertop
Out of reach, your powerful engine –
The myriad, a mirage, a positive clusterfuck
Of noise chimes up from the mechanism on the table
With an endless braying of endless potential –
Whizz. Thump. Dud. Tick.
Shhhhhhhhh. Stop.
Might it not be enough,
To hide raspberry seed ammo in your back teeth?
Just take the cloth and wipe clean the jamjar,
Dust those vagabond crumbs under the rug –
Be done with it.
Gulp down those clumps that stick behind the molars.
In that oral cement mixer of saliva
the last dregs hold fast like a glue –
Metallic, from all that bullet crunching.
But should it perhaps not be enough?
To stand, like once before, barefoot on your kitchen lino –
Or to rest on that countertop,
Feet dangled just so,
To chew, swallow, and for a second,
(Or perhaps, if feeling ambitious, two),
Allow that top to stop spinning on such great unanswerables –
And hold a glob of butter on your tongue.