Jeffrey McDaniel lives in a small apartment
in Philadelphia. His hair gathered back

into a ponytail. His smile a wobbly
merry-go-round that he hopes you will get on.

He treads water in the same dive bar
every Thursday night. He smiles at each girl

who stumbles in and says, Would you like to ride
the Tilt-a-Whirl? Notice how each one of his teeth

is a different shade of yellow. Then he flutters
into the bathroom and digs a rollercoaster

out of his pocket. Jeffrey McDaniel
inherited a lot of breadsticks when he was twelve

from his dead grandfather. He has a fake shrine
in his backyard. Sometimes his brothers call him

and ask to borrow lawn furniture. In his pocket,
the calls go to voicemail: Hi there,

you sexy little dumpling. Welcome to my earlobe.
Please breathe hard into the mouthpiece. Jeffrey McDaniel

runs his hands along the two f’s in his name
like elephant tusks and shakes his head like a bucket

full of soggy trademarks, then he stomps out
of the bathroom and finds a pool of bourbon

hovering near his stool. Girls he knew in college
lounge in bathing suits. He yanks off his t-shirt,

struts out onto the diving board and cannonballs
into his future, which smells just like his past.