Song of My Shelf
Sandy Young

The dusty shelf accuses me, she groans
Of my being dusty and soiled.

I too am not a bit grubby, I am about to get krunked,
I sound my tribal yell over the Celine Dion of the world.

The last smog of day holds over me,
It follows me after the rest and selection as on any Survivor cast,
The Donald looks to me in the dusk.

You’re fired, I wet my Huggies at boot camp,
I effuse my poems in eddies, and drip it in Lysol.

I bequeath my shelf to the dirt to grow from the mold I love,
If you want my shelf, again look for me under it.

You will hardly know who my shelf is or what it means,
But I shall be calm in mood to you nevertheless,
And filter the bad cholesterol out of your blood.

Failing to slap me at first keep encouraged,
Missing a left hook try again,
I stop bruised waiting for you under my shelf.

back to poetry >