Poem
If I was,
I don’t know, walking down, say, a street
and I happened to come across
a group of, I don’t know, firemen
who were fighting, say, a fire,
then I might imagine, might I not,
their fire hose to be a long and beige salami.
And then I might imagine, might I not,
that I could take a slice of that salami,
that I could peel it of its ring of canvas skin
and then I’d have a lens,
the freshest monocle through which,
if I held it to my open eye, I’d probably see
a group of firemen with a cut hose
shouting angrily.
