📃 Daily(ish) poem → 00331 ◊ Song ◊ William Logan
Song
Her nose is like a satellite,
her face a map of France,
her eyebrows like the Pyrenees
crossed by an ambulance.
Her shoulders are like mussel shells,
her breasts nouvelle cuisine,
but underneath her dress she moves
her ass like a stretch limousine.
Her heart is like a cordless phone,
her mouth a microwave,
her voice is like a coat of paint
on a sign by Burma-Shave.
Her feet are like the income tax,
her legs a fire escape,
her eyes are like a video game,
her breath like videotape.
True love is like a physics test
or a novel by Nabokov.
My love is like ward politics
or drinks by Molotov.
—William Logan
—found in Night Battle: Poems (1999)