Risking rot, snot, chlorine and the neighbor’s

backwash, their hot tub, that far out relic,

blobbed, then globbed [metaphor: won-ton oyster’s

glaze] in globs on the waves. ‘That’s freakin’ sick,’

you gagged, hunkering. We’d been hunkering

ever since the backyard lights had blinked on,

then off and then on. Constantly risking

absurdity… and rare diseases. Lawn

diseases, too, ones that make your knees green.

Oysters? Won-ton? No, you’re crap when it comes

to metaphor. Just say we saw stranger’s

cum in the tub, okay queen? ‘Okay queen’?

Ah, said Arthur Dent, abuse. Like scrotums?

Goiters? Quaffers? Tweakers? Punters? Tossers?