I joked on Twitter recently that I had resubmitted all my New Yorker caption contest entries as a poem. Afterwards, I began to wonder what that poem might look like. There was only one way to find out.
Are you sure this is in season?
Can’t you just eat around
the forbidden parts? We normally
vote Democrat, but the snake
just seems stronger on the economy.
Are you sure this is the honeymoon
suite? My wife doesn’t understand
Mimi. I give it six full moons.
She doesn’t get the bloodlust
from my side of the family.
Are you sure that’s a kidney stone?
Is there any family history
of bleeding heart liberalism?
Turns out I’m allergic to lolcats.
Trust me. My character is a doctor.
Are you sure this is Dakota?
I think one of those vultures
just friended me on Facebook.
My stylist keeps giving me
disapproving younger looks.
Are you sure the hour is up?
I have this awful feeling
like I left the waterfalls
running. I think I need to go on
one of those detox pogroms.
Are you sure this thing is safe?
I have to ask. Does the scythe
really work? I had the wyrdest
dream last night. I’ve Instagrammed
things, man. Terrible things.
Are you sure this is the place?
It looked bigger in the frescos.
Typical. No smoke signal. I’m going
to have to call you back later.
We’re going into a wormhole.