Touch a Blunder

The suck you lent my lobe
sent a shiver across my jonquils,
your eager fingers, those janky quatrains,
dumb-throated thunderstrokes.

You must be drunk to sell pencils. Point is
pencils sell themselves. A world
where everyone praises number two,
never even mentioning number one.

Then Sherry decorates the office
with baby angels, the waiting area
smelling like something baking,
a curated, shadow-eaten orifice.

Is a baby.
Are a boy.
Am a man.
Was perfectly dead.

Life in a finch-noted nutshell.
The nothing after something dies.
Whether you believe it or not,
the universe looks the same.