The women are lining up, demanding verbs
And pronouns. You spill a torrent of nouns
all over them. They keep coming back for more.
Statues bleed, time passes, America sleeps with her boss.
Behold, I stand at the door and knock. We are
On the Celtic ray, our hearts beating. No one
Answers. Fill ’er up is! is our motto. Our tanks
Feel empty. Winter ate a hole in our theme song.
You guide the waitress gently to your table.
She feeds you prepositions by the spoonful.