You tossed a cold cathead biscuit
at my ass as I ran in a huff from your kitchen,
the thick, brown syrup sticking to the bottom
of my jeans in a big brown glob.
The nerve of me to ask if your heart
had been doused in vinegar before the gnomes
on the front lawn tried to eat it.
(I’ve always wanted to kick the shit
out of the gnome with the cape. He
is just asking for trouble.)
You’ve trained your dog to bite anyone
who runs across your yard so I ended up kicking
the shit out of him as well. Your gnome,
your schnauzer, and your three-eyed,
knife-bearing, snaggle-toothed mother.
What lessons have you not learned
this day? You cannot ignite propane
while men are straddling the tank.
Flesh is flammable. Cathead biscuits
may be cooked to perfection on the crust
but can be raw in the middle.