Nobody pressed like on my penmanship.  
I’m afraid they might cut off my arm  
before I piss off the clerk of vitamins  
and he takes a pebble from his pipe  
and plants it  
next to the stenocactus multicostatus  
he wrapped in burlap  
and stuck in his freezer for a zany play.  

We signed up for colds this season anyway,  
but I’m going to donate mine to the clerks  
in the bone shop  
where they buried a litter of broken crayons  
supposedly stolen from the Mulch man from Doggerel.  

Now there’s a sot who can’t be bought on credit  
in any place south of Sienna or Soho.  
And I know what you’re thinking:  

I might mean magenta, but no,  
such a thought never crossed my altar.  

I plugged in the toaster hours ago,  
I hope you’re fond of charcoal. . .

Frank William Finney has written many poems. He feeds some to his wooden owl.