A Fine Monkey

He's a fine monkey,
I can see right through his skin,
his body bending
under windy fingers.

Without noticing,
the elder boy
tags a monkey larynx
by a stray red thread,
and yanks it out.

Halter girls are dogging me,
pilfering my car keys.
I'm not fit to drive.
I've gotta hold my hands up high.

Porcelain and plastic
magnify his shanghaied shell,
vinegar and flowers
rising from her hair.

This one was the matchstick,
this one was the hint of chick.
This one was the bottle
spun once by a sailor.