I Loves Me a Milkshake

Chocolate, mostly, in a large glass
and thick like cream of chicken soup,
no, thicker;
thick like a lazy fog, fat and opaque
and challenging you to keep walking;
thick like the upper mantle;
thick like your illiterate uncle
who really likes Two and a Half Men;
thick like the wax from a candle
balled between your fingertips;
thick like your neighbor's age-old moustache,
which in itself is thick as a forest
of evergreens, and that's where
you can find the lazy fog
and where you fall asleep
against a dank Silver Fir,
waiting for morning;
thick like a sandwich from
a neighboorhood deli,
no, that's too thick;
thick like a chick on Soul Train;
thick like a kitten's hungry purr;
thick like a thought that won't go away,
like tar, like a bloated corpse,
like a blue summer sky that seems
to have so much depth that you're stuck,
you're sucked from your steps,
and all the beauty in the world
won't save you from the fear
of being pulled up against it.

I guess I mean a high density, and
smooth, too, but in normal terms
I can't overstate it:
my milkshake should be thick.
And chocolate.