I Have to Go See a Man About a Dog
Joe, brooks are made of stones
If you listen close, the water chortles.
It says: Go away, Joe. Just go. That nude
asleep on the torpedo-shaped boulder
isn’t posing for you or the photographer.
Sometimes, a picture or a moment needs
no words. Clouds mottle. The day is over-
cast. A kitten cries for its mother. Hit
by a car, she’s not coming back. Alas.
Didn’t you once say the world was cruel?
The hair of the dog will keep falling out
to spite the vacuum and her aching
back. She’ll surrender your best friend
to the pound where he’ll die alone. Give
until it aches. (Charity begins at home,
eh? The mice played and played
on your Egyptian sheets and king-sized
mattress, didn’t we? Wheee! ) Don’t take.
Any wooden nickels clicking in your pocket
should be buried for the squirrels to eat
like nookie on a winter body. Jaunary
is always so frigid, so unforgiving.
She forgot about the iron. One’s shoelaces
are sometimes all that contains the feet, keeps
the soles from running away. You have felt
the need to flee on the beach. The waves
are always ready to receive a prodigal body:
Come, my child. Don’t be afraid. Breathing
is for old men and babies. What’s eating you
is eating me, my sweet. Life and love are ravenous.
I /you (are) slay(ing) me. Still, I refuse to feel
shame. Look, the stars are zozzled tonight.
That’s no siren; that’s your wife. Your shirt’s on fire
and your house is being consumed by flames.