Three Poems – Clifford Parody

[And we cripple through our days]

And we cripple through our days, 
king and queen of a patchy backyard
and missed trashed days, cigarette butts
in cans and cans pressed plastic, passed on
to a man who never remembers our names but
nonetheless stops by staggering on Sunday around
noon, walking like a Windexed window along sunny
city streets. He sweats and takes the bag in his sweaty
hand shaking, squinting, turning his face away. Back in-
side I hold you, your neck a paradise scented only by your
own scent, mouth like pipe bomb full of pain pills and how
parabolic this world: how the can man gets so close before he 
turns, how the cigarette smoke flows in and out of our lungs, how 
you take your tongue into the kitchen, how you bring it back to me.