Today I rolled up & down the stairs, looked in the mirror,
combed my hair. Delicious pomalade smells of someone
else’s home. I sat in my chair and read of vulgar Rome,
what a bone. And a dry one at that.
I thoroughly enjoy my mornings alone,
‘cept the shoveling and the feeling of being watched
through the stained glass window. The neighbor
with narrowed eyes and no white guilt.
I find burnt bread thrown onto my drive
still holding the shape of a casserole dish.
I scatter some salt on the damned thing, and spit.
This world exists wintry mothers & their wretched labor.
—Ask Officer Hamburger for the right favor.
Lest the man’s now dead from diabetes. Or a slug.
—O I have no trouble letting trouble pass,
waiting for the garden vines to thrive once more,
heavy & thick in the air. I’m on the bar feeling smug
while a drop of sweat rolls down the cheek of my ass.
