is the kitchen knife,
same as the boxcutter.
How rude it is to dice up chicken
or cardboard with the same edge
acquainted with a wrist.
Worse is the fountain pen,
same as the ballpoint,
How they reveal a late-sprout poet
with the same ink used for
freehanded suicide plots.
Then there’s the drink,
always, just one.
How it tips its hat in regards,
stays its welcome or over,
tells me fingers aren’t for counting.
I’m a child running at end tables,
playing chicken with dusked riptide,
falling slow-mo into the embrace of friends
who’ve suddenly backed away.