I hurled tater tots off the jetty.
Damn it felt good! (Try it.)
The gulls took to the tots
like a jet on a strafing run.
(I always was shit for similes.)
I placed coleslaw atop a black boulder.
A crow landed, gobbled up the slaw,
and flew away with the toothpick.
He had it between his teeth.
He was Groucho Marx.
Yes, I saw that!
It wasn’t a poem.
It was a crow flying with a toothpick in its mouth.
He winked at me as he flew past.
The wink is the poem.
No one who hurls tater tots off a jetty
makes it as a poet in the New Yorker.