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What’s it like

to be perfect-Ly,

perfectly tall,

perfect—Ly, in?

Bearing pickets pointed, wounding,

your greeting bitter medicine

up my nostrils

trickling.



To you a child, head patted.

Shall I bark?

Drums are wasps buzzing

from the racket of your dogging.

I was once human, like you;

more than a plague.

Now down here with the flies;

junk mail.



Dear Perfect—Ly, one wish:

Let perfection plan your demise.



Fran Hinkle

1/03/03