by Daniel Nester
Among twenty snowed-in mucous membranes,
The only moving snot-nose
Was on the face of your mama.
I was of three minds,
Like a love triangle
In which there are three your-mamas.
Your mama whirled in the autumn wind.
It was a small part of the rigmarole.
A man and a woman
A man and a woman and your mama
Are really one.
I do not know which I prefer,
Your booty’s innuendo
Or your booty without inflection,
Your mama whistling at me
Or just after.
I’m sick. Less from long withdrawals
Or booty gamesmanship.
That back shelf of your mama, we
Smacked it, flipped it to and fro.
We rubbed that back shelf
And gave it a Booty Certificate.
O thin men of Middlesex County,
How do you imagine those golden butt-cakes?
Do you not see how your mama’s
Wardrobe envelopes, for rock formations,
And the waddups are about you?
I knew noble my accent
Was lucid, an indescribable trifle;
But I knew, too,
That your mama was involved
In what I know.
When your mama flew out of sight,
It marked an effort
Or an opinion of many clarities.
As a signifier, your mama
Flows into the next neighborhood.
Even Ben-Wah balls
Can cut a butt-cake more sharply.
She rode over Connecticut
With a glorified colitis.
Once her booty hit the ground
The shape of her equipage for
Our romance be moving.
Your mama must be flying.
It was example of all agreement.
It was snowing.
And you were getting on the sofa.
And your mama just sat there
In her seat, licking her lips.