Why can I not slip into the next room
& hopeful-shrug, perusing your collection
of dragonfly wings & blaxploitation flicks?
In a rambler fantastically different from this
I grew up with very bad teeth & an appetite
for drawing on things I wasn’t supposed to—
family photographs, the calves of women
standing in line at the supermarket. For years
I’ve been cloaked finely with dust & germs
from the unswept tiles of this earth—who
knew I’d end up sometimes being a good guy
with the back-slapping hugs & Jesus juice & what not.
Of course—there are days I still sit in the Nissan, doing
the crossword during the drive-by but mainly I need
to be taught how best to forget. How to stop
the toilet from singing because it won’t be such
a long road now that all the bombs are falling.
F-Bombs. Smart Bombs. Stuffing mailboxes
with cherry bombs. Too soon we’ll huddle under
the sheets with flashlights at our mouths, weeping
as we tell stories about our endless grinchitude.
It might be the last thing we ever do. All of us
the same & on & on & then it’s over. You might think
this is an uncool way to look at the fan whirling around
the bedroom ceiling but standing on a ladder this close
to it, my voice goes rough sledding & no matter how dizzy
I get, I can’t close my dried-out & bleeding eyes.
