They Love to Touch

 

I once saw a man at a pretzel stand

with a giant pretzel on top of it.

You couldn’t help but know that it was

fake: nobody makes pretzels that big.

He just had to touch it, though, creep!

It should have fallen on him.

It must be the same thing with snow;

they always walk on the clean stuff.

Monkeys will sleep in their own shit

even if you show them how not to.

Even a dog won’t do that.

Let them not breed in great numbers

or else they will slime over the world.

The filthy fools remind me of

apes in crimson capes pretending to

be their human masters.  It must

be and oral fixation of the skin and

the thoughts have all atrophied.  It’s

possible they have forgotten to feel with

their minds.  Don’t get me wrong,

I enjoy a good tussle in the hay

as much as the next person but

this sort of thing isn’t lasciviousness.

Opening windows and closing doors

most of the time they don’t know what

for.  I think they forgot.  It must be

that they spent too much time with their

hands in their pants or up their skirts

or whatever.  Self-gratification gets

that way after awhile.  Nobody thinks of

the next person who walks across the snow.

Pretzels should learn to fight back.

 

first published in Wind Row, fall 1984.

1st internet publication BlogSpot.com, 2/23/2014.

 

 

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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