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Bocadillo
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Iron Poet They say I have a problem...
trunk full of open containers
all sticky hippie flytraps
rattling as my three hubcaps
pass over train tracks
playing chicken
against my better judgment and against the wind.
Officer asks if he can take a look inside;
I tell him he can't handle what's inside.
Click. Click.
Trunk release.
We make left side mirror eye contact
and it dawns on me that I'm done for.
I've been found out.
Strawberry!
Grape!
Cherry!
Apricot!
I'm a jelly hoarder!
A diner-sized jar of jelly hoarder!
Just trying to get across the border!
Loganberry!
Blueberry!
Pomegranate preserves!
Ask me to designate, delineate,
and describe the differences between
jams, compotes, and chutneys...
Peach!
Blackberry!
Raspberry!
Motherfucking apple butter.
If it can go in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,
I'm bringing it to Mexico.
Flying down the highway
bug-eyed
covered in crumbs
sucking Moxie through a crazy straw.
Yeah.
This is gonna be a good drop.
