The Museum

The Museum

The wax museum
by my house
is one of two
within my city.
But only I stand by
Mr. Suburbia
and his harlequin green mower.

Use my pinkie to feel his
sticky smooth skin
that sweats in the sun
like cheese.
Water droplets bead on a creaseless brow
smelling not unlike church.

And Rex, the hound dog
beloved family pet whose droopy lips
hang frozen in a woof
angry with
the brown wax squirrel
whose plastic nuts
grow into pipe cleaner trees.
Where little Jimmy Small-Town
could hang his rubber tire swing.
If only he wasn’t a
life
size
candle.

At least the bees’ wax bees can’t sting him.