The Present I Want For Your Birthday
"Roses are reddish. Violets are blueish.
If it wasn't for Jesus, we'd all be Jewish." —Deb Stein
Would you consider doning the hippy skirt
with jingle bells and fringy boots you wore
twenty years ago to this evening's soiree?
How about a woven yarn bracelet, or three?
Or filling the nearly-closed holes up your lobes
with yin-yang studs and cheap hoops? Yeah,
I didn't think so. You've probably a more tasteful
ensemble already set on the closet door.
It's your day to do as you choose (you seldom
overdo or underdo anymore, though—more just-
rightdo—little dishes of chips or pickles set out
with perfect timing, seltzer to wash it down—
if it weren't for your flurry about the burners,
I might've starved this winter) but please tonight
do the Toaster Dance, take a puffed-up stranger
down a notch with "Easy, sizzle tits" for me—
as your generosity's boundless as the dirty jokes
you know when and how to place just so—
like fuzzy, goofball flowers set beside
sleek reeds in a sublime ikebana bouquet.