Let Me Be Honest With You

Let me be honest with you.

Your elbow has a crook in it, and your zipper is falling
open after dinner.
Your super bowl snore shakes the house like a truck shakes a fragile bridge.
Your lips tried to kiss me.  Everybody was looking.

There may be a shape of blue.
Her tongue cradles estuaries.
I leave the concrete up to you,
and use the grass to pick blueberries
for lunch.

Let me be honest with you.

These grandparents dispense juice behind a Florida guardbooth.
These grandparents never tire of retiring.
These grandparents read the schedule of senior citizen's events with glaucomic eyes.
These grandparents wake up early to check their electrical wiring
on a hunch.

All week their precocious visitor cannot find something blue he's lost.
Cove of golf green.
On the way to the airport something blue
appears under the passenger seat where it had been tossed.
Holes punched in tennis windscreen
                                                            for the wind's billowing androgyny.

Caffeine free.
Fat free.
Cholesterol free.
Just one calorie.
Does not support testing on animals.

Let me be honest with you.  I don't know how I feel about ambivalence.