The mackerel stare
from the shallows of their tin,
eyes wide beneath the olive oil gleam.
The golden toffee pudding is the fan favorite,
followed by the sheen of naked shrimp
with their chilly curves,
then the dark chocolate, ready for warm mouths
to taste the glisten in their cherry centers.
Not all hints of light are holy,
perhaps that is why
streaking comets burn out their skulls,
swift rabbits scatter in the white of the moon,
and in the old Chevy truck, the cigarette lighter
still glows orange when pressed
by an underage finger.
Silver spoons don’t pick
the tongues that lick them
or the hands that toss them
with the other dirty dishes,
flashes of lightning settling beneath the water.
