imitation poem

Robert Morgan
Squirt gun

[with italic support from me]


The orange see-through plastic makes

Waves in the blue sky, contrasting;

The gun at first appear red-hot.

Warm spectra fill the fields of view

But water in the grip is cool

to the touch, drips on your hands,

And sloshes when you raise to aim.

Squirting the gun is so much fun

The trigger slides the cylinder

Along the barrel, and crystals pour out

And shoots a needle clear as light

A stream of consciousness arises from the tip

Across the porch to break as mist.

From falls Niagra, the springs of life itself

The gun is fun because it shoots

What would most accurately be described as

Clear piss. You point and pee on leaves,

On stems and trunks, on ladybugs,

On ants, on flowers yards away.

Heaven is a pure clean jet of water

You spray the sun and make rainbows

Of schoolchildren already at play

That melt away in the instant rain.

The speed of light and then a few

You sprinkle dust along a step

Much like the mouse right to your left

And scare the cat again and hit

The fat kid in the corner, then full speed towards

A June bug like a Messerschmidt.

Speeding demons speed the reason

And when the gun is almost dry

A tear is formed and you start to cry

You place the barrel between your lips

And flush the tears with fresher juice

And close your eyes and fire a sip.