Sing to me, red-haired Irish trees, sing “The Rose of Tralee.”
When my parents made me, the bedsprings laughed so hard they broke apart.
The laundry waits on line for a breeze to give it wings.
When the cow jumped over the moon she entered menopause.
Is this the road to Mandalay? I see no flying fish.
Some people laugh like cracked eggshells, others like banging spoons.
The last glacier will wear a blue negligee with a lace collar.
Sorry, but Kilroy was never here.
Sidewalk grooves map lost cities, bustle and spirit gone.
Nobody sings about Jupiter’s 62 moons.
I glimpsed my guardian angel from a window of the Paris Metro.
What are analogies but efforts to find mirrors for abstractions?
By chance I was born, by fate I will surely die.
I just lost the best line of this poem.