and a tight v-line. Big, striped arms
to better feed me your sugary cereal,
spoonful of cold milk dribbling down
my chin. Crunch. Slurp. Feed me beneath
your pecs and lull me, endangered beast,
nurse me with the reaped wheat frosted
white. What would Daddy-Kellog think
of you — creator of the anti-mastubation
meal known as the cornflake. Gulp. You
don’t know either, your paws naughty
and large soft face plastered bulk across
the cereal aisle at the supermarket,
begging me, teasing me, red ascot
like a bib and cerulean nose and that
smile of yours on the cardboard forcing me
to mumble an invocation of Oh, God.
J.B. Kalf is currently slipping on ice. Has been published or is forthcoming within Beaver Magazine, The Shore, Poetry Lab Shanghai, Roi Fainéant, Prosetrics, Inkfish Magazine, Hot Pot Magazine, Does It Have Pockets, #Ranger, and elsewhere. Prefers limes to lemons. BSKY INSTA
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