I.
Sometimes it’s all a confusing jumble.
Jumble, jumble, bo bumble,
Fee fi fo fumble.
Jumble.

II.
Questions dog you.
Dogs question you.
Who, what, where, when, why?
Arf?

III.
In your pocket,
in your cargo shorts,
your eyeyiyiyi phone jiggles
wrongishly
against your trio of banjo picks–
your three amigos:
Manny, Moe and Jack–
and your clueless, dumb-ass leg.
Very wrongishly.
Jiggle begets jumble:

IV.
An electric blue glow
deep in the cargo bay.
The shameless provocateur
inside the phone
throws open her cell doors.
Eyeyiyiyi.
Ladies and gentlemen,
we are now live
and direct
from your shorts.

V.
How can I help you, Pat?
Who told you my name?
Sorry, Pat. I didn’t get that.
How do I turn you off?
But you just turned me on, big boy.

VI.
Note to self:
It’s never good
when your shorts start talking
to you.
Even worse when you talk back
to you.
With gestures.

VII.
Sudden slapping of the cargo pockets.
Grunting, face reddening,
savagely grabbing the flaps.
The stupid flaps.
Fastened with Velcro.
Stupid Velcro.
It won’t let go.
Like a dog arfing your leg.
Stupid leg.

VIII.
The people with the nets
see you
remonstrating
with your pants.
Slapping your flaps.
Abusing the Velcro.
They call for–
who ya gonna call?—
Remonstrance Busters.

IX.
Bring the really big net.
Check.
Don’t forget the tranquilizer gun.
Check.
Extra darts.
Check please.
Ten-four

X.
So.
That new count-your-steps app?
It will get you
up and walking.
And jiggling.
And jumbling.
And hearing voices.
Manny, Moe and Jack.
And it will make you healthy.
Or crazy.
Was there ever any doubt?

XI.
Another jiggle.
So wrongish.
A sudden pantaloonian
pocket symphony.
Piccolos, flutes, oboes,
bassoons, horns, trumpets,
Panta-Loonian.
Tubas, triangles,
rhombuses, parallelograms,
cannon.

XII.
Um, Cannon? In my shorts?
You’re shouting, Pat
My cargo is exploding!
It’s the “1812 Overture,” Pat.
Arf?
Pandora, Pat. Your stupid leg
punched up Tchaikovsky.

XII.
The Moscow Mule?
That’s a cocktail, Pat.
Vodka and ginger beer.
What a kick in the pants.
They didn’t call him Pistol Pyotr
for nothing, Pat.

XIII.
Note to self:
One little jiggle jumble
and the count-your-feet-healthy-life-connecto-app
summons Our Lady of the Pants.
Pray to her, Pat
to shut up.

*Not to be confused with Wallace Steven’s wonderful Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/45236

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2016, all rights reserved.