The perfect poem blooms like a rose,
then bowls 300,
all while cracking a walnut
in its gleaming white teeth.
It drinks only caffeinated beverages,
eats Applejax three meals a day
It never washes, yet smells of sun-dried linen.
The perfect poem finds missing persons by reading the seeds
of a pickle, while whistling the opening sequence
to Twin Peaks.
It collects Bavarian beer steins.
It is liked
The perfect poem invites you inside,
offers you its very own easy chair,
butters you up a Corn Toasty, and
asks for permission to bed your wife.
It borrows your pen, fires off a suggestion
for a tastier cream cheese,
which it presents to you
like a prescription.
When the perfect poem is done
it darts off into the night,
leaving fleshy, cuddlesome images
in its wake,
followed by a vague feeling of Christmastime,
then the taste of cherry pie.