Poetry: bottle juice

by Seth Oelbaum

 

my tum’s neither full nor em. teddy’s tum?
that’s dumb. he has none. all white stuff, fluff. come
to me airplane peanuts, salty and saved.
mommy bayed when I kept them: it’s not k.
no, there’s dough in piggybank; not as much
since daddy went up, but we can eat buff
chickens still – it won’t kill. let’s bottle juice:
red, purple, orange juice. it won’t take a coup,
mommy can pick up at fat store. but… bore.
peanuts? more! they’re tiny, like crumbs on floor.