Poem
When a bus on Center Street
runs on time in early morning
and delivers everyone on time,
you kick your husband in sleep.
And because a couple in Plymouth
wake together from mutual pleasure,
you will sport another rash
you've long stopped blaming
on your children's detergent.
Somewhere in Boston,
there's laughter from a girl
you chased off because she
kissed a boy from whom you failed
to negotiate a date.
causing your throat to trickle.
Furthermore, this makes the invisible
puppet-cum-voodoo strings
more and more taut.
A light breeze causes them
to vibrate melodically,
creating sitar style music,
lulling your hometown
into false security.
All but your family
seated at breakfast
across from you,
spouse and child's faces
illustrating inevitability,
like front most checker pieces
waiting to be picked off.
1 comment:
Bravo!
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