I still claim him.
he’s my fried rice box.
I’m ordering in.

This valley consists of rice,
geese, rice, geese, rise geese,
sprinkle almonds and send it, my love,
far across the soy sea into the valley.
I am depressed and he is marked clearly
on the Rand-McNally.

He’s nesting in Sacramento, the sacrament.
I’d like the answered prayer, the wish fulfillment.
In a world where all are looking to be saved,
my polluted digits are looking for something to clasp in prayer,
a little salvage, a little save
or else, something to assuage
my deep yearn.

Still I have not learned.
I still maintain that my mouth
is where the french language goes to die.
So, I claim him with an English cry.

Two years past, and he no longer has a twenty-one,
and the willows are still bending until I’m done.
He is settled up in some capitol now
having some capital fun.


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