Culinary Courses Poem

The culinary courses at midnight
and the phone booth wake-up calls
can’t do a thing for your inability at math.

You can’t get credit for the lunch assignments
or the mime demonstration of frying
without showing a real capacity for suicide.

Seeing how someone reacts to abandoned clothes
on the street side of the curb
is the only way to find out who they really are.

The church should’ve locked up its Galaga machine;
that’s all I’m saying: debunking myths is now banned
on Facebook: property is cancer, etc. — diagrams.