It’s not the underground railroad

or the abandoned post office downtown

Not the candycane flip flops

or the hand-crafted gondola paddles

It’s something else

not the American flag that hangs at the car dealership

nor the playboy calendar underneath your bed

It’s not anything to do with the size of a hermit crab’s shell

or the velocity of a dog’s toy as it flies through the air

Not the minute hand on a watch

ticking and tapping

Not the stuffed tiger

Your bedtime toy

Not the shovel used to dig out a dead man’s grave

No it’s not that at all

Something completely different

Something I literally cannot put my finger on

Something with a buzz, I think

It must’ve been tall

with hangers and bulges

That ratchet and rotate and

take energy from its surroundings

and can dream without thinking

Not a fleece coat,

just another regift

A house that’s for sale,

a house that’s been boughten

or boughted

Neither of those

...But it could be I suppose...

It’s not being satisfied,

But that’s the right thought

It’s most likely being confused

and the feeling of guilt

A one-man marching band wearing a kilt

or a five-star restaurant that never was built

I’m still the same leftovers left on the plate

I’m still the same convulsions convulsing inside

Still stuffed with innuendos to the forbidden tree

The something else inside me seems to have died