The Superstitious Await Good Luck

I'm never quite sure as a human
if I'm sputtering like a
dignity ham, or sorta breezing about
like an outside dog. Half of me
is hog and half of me is cold cur.
And still there are thoughts
of winning the Superbowl
and how that might
relate to pressure
relieved from a certain valve.
This valve I mention only
because I have been accused of not
mentioning it.
But now I see how the balloon is filled.
Now I notice the notes in the solo.
I mean the sousaphone in
my forearm.
Of course, the things which relate
to varieties of rock-n-roll (for
instance, the drumbeat) occur.
Yes, the barking was everywhere.
I mean, no matter
how many times I said "It's just
the mailman," still
the belching of the
distance. And in the distance,
unwinding on a couch, the
rare plums are waking
up.