Kit Kat Poem
Would you like a Kit Kat, sir?
Let me get the cellophane off for you.
Her bra was a front-clasp contraption
like a steam-powered bird
perched on a bushel of wheat for ambience.
She said ESL phrases like “tomorrow’s end”
and was gossiped about as decadent
by the Mozambican cotton beetles she went to school with.
The Ultimate Warrior is not America,
just a distant revelator from CD days.
She thought it was strange how little of martial arts
exchanges into a real street fight.
Muttering “Fuck The Midwife’s Promise”
in the “quiet zone” of a library,
she just got out and walked on the overpass,
the way Michael Stipe suggested with no expectation.