I don’t feel like meat tonight.
Red or white.
Perhaps bananas and ice cream
Though I remember what my son once said about ice cream,
How it’s made from the feathers of birds.
I’ve never felt right about it since.
I’m afraid to look it up in case it’s true
And I’ll feel even worse.
But ice cream feels right.
It’s a hot evening. I’ve had eggs and bacon for lunch
So something soft seems just the ticket..
I just wish I never heard that about ice cream,
That the thought would just grow wings and fly away.
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