My buxom pretzel, twisted gift
of conjunction & connection, bum
firmly planted on the ground, you lean
into spinal twist, offering an invisible
beggar’s bowl to gather riches
from house to house, not
for yourself but for others,
as you whisper “come closer, come
closer than the word and allows.”
You beckon us to join you with
a wag of your tail, promises
of always together.
Until recently, children chanted
o ampersand, instead of zed
at the alphabet’s end. Things
were more open-ended then.