EVERYTHING'S BUTTER WITH A BLUE SONNET ON IT
Eschewing your bare neckbone
in the pot of that sweater's softer tone,
Almost barely, just below the tine
fondly tuning the top of a spine
maybe says your mouth, although eyes shine
Shall we better these times?
A bead of sweat on a never neck
cursive script moving immaculate
as periwinkle gloves on porcelain piano keys
a bottle's fondle, the screw top of a moan
a waffle's crinkles, maple's brown embrace
dry rub on a rib, butter on a roll
neckbones in gravy, hot biscuits in a bowl.