When digging inside your plane ticket,
bubbles pour out from the soap sud chem lab.
I hollow out the #2 Ticonderoga
and scoop out the soupy mix of words.
Will the roll of dollar bills unravel, you?
Come back to the oven splattered with sauce.
Circling the fleshy clock,
two hands with papercuts drip in galoshes.
The polka-dot pajamas discolor your skin,
and bricks leap from the gum-stamped wall.
If there must be another couplet,
empty the drums; this is the final one.