Good faith in bad beer coming my way
on holiday, celebrated on a couch
as intricate as a Jewish banker’s vest dreamt
in a German-designed lucid bad dream.
Our curled toes greeted space heater coils,
as she strategically placed a coaster on the
last scrap of wood from Heinrich Steinweg’s first piano,
At that moment I make it a mistletoe moment.
I married a doll; many, actually. Dozens displayed
spot-free in wicker hats, plastic plump cheeks,
like babies winking in hot wax. I found a coaster:
a binder, pictures of people dead in their beds.
Hair spread to the side like tea bag tag strings,
tucked into Sunday best. Bed sheets for all eternity.