hard work

I have been wrestling with this one for a while. It's about my mother. Sometimes I stare at the lake when a line goes wrong.

Beloved Floofylimbs, How I Pine Like Damn

Floofylimbs, I live in a cheery house of rafts,
wherein I dwell on sex and speaker systems,
all the livelong whistlin' "shlam-zee-du!"
and "up with methsicles!"

I make sure to reck for heavy heavy siphoning,
and eat my grilled tomatoes from a can:
a tin assembly stapled by a Persian
lacking ankle socks.

Charlie from the DragonCon insists I scrimp —
owing to my debt of twenty Pogs. But hark!
All day the pitbulls squish the avocados,
all day a real bridge is paced

to grind away through clomps
the limpid bargains of frayed caps or county lines.
Yet I never dally in such onion-ridden frowns: every
eye I own is totally into that Kenny Chesney nostalgia.

What's with tongue aflame with shitty shitty bang bang?
We have a world of Specials, of Extravaganzas, of Megaman!
Why, Tim has stayed up all night selling fish in Everquest and
truly so did all the garden jingle at his feat! No powdered eggs!

So prowl with me through the Raley's parking lot, the bumper cars, and
train your spork to slice the scrim. For I did not buy half a dozen
Gatorades to see your rain shoes near the oven. This is the year
that we — like — yeah, the year — you know — Oreos.