Pickup Poem Day 23

Ice Cream Machine

The pink abyss gazes back, languid

and clockwise, eternity

in the hypno-coin of a movie

magician sucking the weak

minds under his power. The children

of Israel would slaughter the prescribed

calf, blade-literally, but handed off rite 

to the priestly pros. In your stomach

you know the Lord would miss

a metaphor. This dessert contains

no white tiles, no jingle-chase and wood-

tongue, none of the thirty-one names

of the ineffable milkshake. Pleasing

to the senses, yes, and cold, but really

just fat in its season.