Jeffrey McDaniel

After the ax whistled down and my head tumbled
off my neck, spun through the air, and landed

between my wife's ankles, i looked up her skirt:
one last glimpse at those alabaster chimneys.

What good will the word "thigh" do me 
where I'm going, I wondered, as i stared 

at the red door of her panties, the brass knocker
that I installed one rainy weekend morning

when we were young and in love. Good-bye 
little red door that I used to walk through

after a long day at the office and say, "honey
I'm homeopathic". I wanted to apply arrivederci

lipstick and plant one last kiss on the soil,
hope it grew into something useful,

then Janey snatched me up by the hair
and lifted me off the ground, yelling

"the putty's not so silly anymore, is it,
mister marmalade?" The last thing I remember

is her punting me high through the air:
a squirrel squinting on a tree trunk,

the house getting smaller, a blue bird

Disclaimer: The Poematic failed on Jeffrey about two minutes from the end of the event. The last few lines were modified after the fact. We apologize to both Jeffrey McDaniel and to the reader.

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