I am not putting lemons in this poem.
They’ve been taking up too much
screen time lately and people
are starting to talk.
Hundreds of illuminating mini suns
a tree of extras always on time
scene-stealing stars in a garden
of muted peaches and pinks.
I could give them someone to dance with,
a salvia in flaming fuchsia or purple
perhaps, or maybe not.
Meyers crave attention, love seeing
people salivate at the thought of their
summer-sucking sweet tartness.
At night they transform into tiny
pock-marked orbiting orbs
silver-shadowed lunar landscapes.
Still, no match for the real stars,
the heavenly hosts,
extras who light up distant stages
or the planets like Mars
with his fear of intimacy
coming in close for a chat
then speeding away
for another fifteen years
or the banjo head moon
that chases away any thought