Lost Gorleston Poem

This Mr Whippy tastes like air, you said.
I gave you pennies stuck with lint,
A gift from the arcade.

Then something on the shape
Of tickets issued from machines,
how they looked like tongues

And a few (unwritten) lines
On the ker-ching of slot machines,
Or miscellaneous imagery of that variety.

This is still a love poem to you,
But because my thumb is tired from scrolling
through fourteen thousand messages

Rooting for some lost phrase
That turned too smooth in my mouth
Like a peeled grape.


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