Cow Separation Anxiety

It comes down to this, buddy,
dear slick articles slapping glossy lips
in contents of this non-controversial magazine
the library never fails to display
next to others in the N sector
(check point stopping wandering minds)
a mugginess relieved by cartoons,
 
e.g. couple on tour boat in N.Y. harbor,
woman sayeth to man, "look at this picture
of what we are looking at . . . "
 
where was I, oh dear, it comes down to this, buddy,
are you idiots by nature
or are you paid to be idiots?
Either way I be so relaxed
here in this chair designed to be vaguely off axis
by the tall, wide library winter window — 
glancing outside at black & whites
(this is 1957, isn't it?)
on the avenue as immortal as gay abs
to which my home town has been attached
like pastures for tennis shoes to slobber in.
 
I catch a glimpse of myself
driving a '94 Mazda up town to Maggie's Buns
where I will charge a Cinnamon Roll to Medicare.

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