Like a jacket over a puddle under an old woman’s feet:
Something that only happens in old time cartoons,
Every time I eat a hot pocket, I think of you,
Which is to say I think of you rarely,
Not because you’re a duo of ice and lava,
Or because you’re an automaton
put in place of a Broadway production,
Or because you flatter taste buds
like a flasher looking for a valentine who won’t mace him,
But because you’re a testament to perseverance and,
with a house on easy street I need no such thing and,
Hence I am guilty of distance to the throttle in all that I’ve won.