Where the Customary’s Always Right By Jesse Ferguson
Where the wild things hold their caucus summit,
where the cock is, at the summit: Chanticleer ushering the morn. Some-
where out there with the Remax guy, I’d
where you out with anyplace you want. Whereat, I might ask
wherefore art thou, Super Mario?
Where there be dragons? and virile octogenarians gettin' it any-
where they can? Get it – where would Jesus shop?
Where the rhetorician in the kitchen is never unsavoury (he’ll be
where the Dalmatian mascot’s BEWARE sign spontaneously combusts).
Where Paul Muldoon’s hair is given its own display case to save
where and tear,
where a tear is shed for each receipt headed for the shredder,
where the bags of shredded receipts shrink from the garbage man’s glove,
where the whereabouts dwindle to hereabouts, and other things
we hear about govern the markets:
where there’s smoke (in your portfolio), there’s usually fire.
Where right meets left, and deft meets gauche,
where such niceties are forborne – I could paint you fire-engine red.
Where you never take me nowhere is taken in a positive light.
Where regret could fill a space helmet, love rattle like a spent filament
wherever you drop the laundry. I’ll take you
where we two can be as one – maybe Denny’s.
Where the sticky handle of your heart would only endear, and
where my pancakes wouldn’t have it any other way.