The Rub

I am a futilely rubbed lamp
an improperly worded wish
the trout’s eye staring up from your plate
like the egg yolk beside it
I am the punishment of Abel and the prize of the planter
a kingdom and a harem
forty-three sons, two goats
and an arboreal swan.
A chance against the odds
reward for murder
exile, solitude
a peace-time of quiet genocide
cumming genies and devils
and slow burning oil
for the gamble – for the rub
for the rub of the head against
the landing strip and the fast flash into fire
where we all line up and check into cash
POOF! There-in it lies…
who will call me master when the sun goes down?


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