John Tzikas

Her kisses have the intensity
of rumbling clouds
infringing on the profanity
of tigers in sweatpants
at a community centre
meet and greet

She does what she wants
(and makes scads of sense)
but nobody’s perfect
she’s the class treasury
(of the indirect)

Her kisses have the trajectory
of a jackhammer marooned in a chute
compelled to eradicate
(the resolute barricades)
of a call centre manager’s afternoon snooze

She gets what she wants
(without a pretense)
everyone’s obviously imperfect
she’s the classic benefactor
(of spin-off events)

In an inversion of fortuity
the center gets a square dowel
somewhere in the heartland corridor
the farmer doesn’t know where to take the wife
the night is opportune for Scrabble
(3 points a tile or an appropriate vowel)
her kisses are professorial