SINGING IN THONGS
He’ meant to go to bed at eight, this child
so that he’ll not fall victim
to stray bullets
from teevee shots meant for the benighted.
And this is eight, nightingale morning’s eight
and the teevee screens are agog
with an armada of rotating bots
claiming descent from singing lips,
some bare
some clad in pretence thongs
a lobe to the right
a lobe to the left
and the holidaying child is in the dock
facing a booby-traps of questions
from the female anatomy,
not on it.
aihuomaimminentriver 