He, Jabiru, jabs her with his elbow
trying to quiet the young girl’s nonsense.
She jabbers incessant jabberwocky.
One minute the jabiru
is resting in the jaborandi grove
wearing jacinth robes while Jack and his jackal
lead a jackass with a jackdaw astride-
the next minute she cranks
the jack-in-the-box holding a jackknife,
poised and ready to slit the clowns
throat, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern
all the time ranting like a Jacobin.
He is worried that her jactitation
may be jaded from the jaggery
she and her pet jaguarondi
lapped for an afternoon delight.
She is jailbait living in a jalopy.
She is in a jam between two jambs.
She toils as a janitor, speaks jargon,
smells of jasmine and glows like a jasper necklace.
Her skin is slightly jaundice like a watered down spicy mustard.
He knows she needs help.
He wonders if there exists Jaws of Life
big and strong enough to
pry her from Jekyll and Hyde.
He jettisons his jewels
buys a Jew’s-harp
jibes his life, jigs a jitterbug
attempts to rid her of the jive
that joggles her mind.
Joie de vivre drives her to join
in the jollity, jolting her out
of the journey that has plagued
her since some jowly bastard
squashed joy as he joy rode
her tiny body.