A SCOOPER OF ICE CREAM

My parents are operating
under the assumption
that I am chipping away
at a lucrative
future.

As a reward, they keep buying me bison dinners.

They don’t know
that I’d really just prefer
to walk down
to the sea and holler
nonsense.

They refuse to accept
that in all likelihood I will burn this towel,
skip North,
and become a loader of cargo,
a scooper of ice cream, or a maker
of sandwiches.

My catholic upbringing allows room
for an inherent guilt
but the bison
is simply too delicious.
________________________________________________________

IN THE AFTERMATH OF 1 BOTTLE OF JAEGER, TWO IN A HOT TUB, AND A HASTY SPEECH REGARDING PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS

So my head is down there
and my beard
is tangled in his loins
and the whole time
I am thinking
about Thomas the Train Engine,
the little engine that
could.

Train engines and you.

I kept thinking
that if she were laying
supine and bare
on the futon
then she would say
go
go go.

So, go I did,
and when we finished
I hardly felt
as though I’d made it
up any kind
of hill.

She wasn’t even
in the room.

She was at work.

She was dipping the tips
of strawberries
into fudge
and scooping ice cream
for children
who have yet
to learn
otherwise.

Joseph Goosey is enamored with an actress with a tattoo of a Klimt on
her side. He has one chapbook available via Poptritus Press and one
forthcoming via Shadow Archer Press. He loves you for reading.