The Bearer’s Pint
Flash of tongue trails
over pink lip
matches your top
in all the right places
not quite to your jeans.
The kiss can be deadly
but is oh so delicious.
Roman legions, it is said,
used it as a rite of passage
a toast of manhood.
The existence of windows in buildings
where the walls are translucent
makes little sense, yet the gelatissassin
waits behind one, patient, eyes trained
on the crushed-Pez sidewalk,
for his target.
Specificity is a must:
Jell-O shots are keys
to the victim. A lime would laugh
at a lemon bullet; no, black cherry’s
the thing. They, the black cherries
cruising the ghetto in their pneumatic
low-riders, are more susceptible
to pistachio poison than jiggly projectiles.
There—turning the corner. The lime.
Holding hands with a kiwi, just like
the contact said. The gelatissassin
raises his weapon, takes a bead.