In the Tom Jones

In the Tom Jones Automat of Porn

there is a grid of post office boxes

with little windows to show you

what’s on offer.  There are tons of

hot dogs in buns and cream-filled

twinkies, and all sorts of pumpernickel 

or rye sandwiches filled with holy

guacamole (evidently the Pope’s been

here or is coming in he near future).

And Tacos!  I’ve never seen so many,

and, of course, there are just about a

million beers, beers of every kind.

I sit at a table.  It’s raining outside

and I see my old reflection in the glass;

I feel the November in my soul and

want to go and knock some hats off.

Maybe I’ll make an appointment at

The Moby Dick clinic down on

Broadway and Sycamore.  I’ve heard 

they have a cure for this abiding

sense of self-importance that’s got

me so low down.  Dunno, dunno.

FG Saturday, December 16, 2012

All rights reserved by the author Forrest Greenwood.