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.