Rotate the potato. A labrador is happiest collecting kindling.
While the football’s on in the other room we salt the pigskin: O, giver of gout.
Brie suctions the wooden platter. Wisteria bruises on the patio.
We’ll lock away the candles when the baby learns to crawl. There’s an eggplant
outside for you. The stovetop coils sing. You have to take the batteries
from the smoke alarms before it crackles. You need new shoes.
The dogs haven’t had their breakfast. I haven’t used that bowl since Christmas
She boils beans until they look like paper mâché. Ups-a-daisy-daisy-do!
The leather lounges shriek when you sit down. Your bedroom
still has stickers on the ceiling. He’s got good wrists for flicking teatowels.
I’m still having trouble with my pannacotta. The cap
of the sauce bottle has scabbed over. Six proteas sit in a cut-glass vase.
Take a concrete tablet and harden the fuck up. There are sewing pins
in the spice rack. My father’s fingers always get the crisp bits first.
It’s been a big week. What’s this one infused with?
Pass the gravy, fathead.
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