the flies languidly
loop the loop near the porch ceiling
It is what passes for
my wife at work
her arm inside the glass case
reaching for pastries
the customers point to
I push back the afternoon’s responsibilities
mend a screen
to make her think
I haven’t lolled the day
doing the crosswords
In some societal setups
the women do all the work
Men of superior talent
should spend their time as I do. . .
Where am I? The sleeping bag
Grapples my legs on the dirty floor.
When the sun at a window waters the smog
Before the conscious morning’s dream,
A man is being sucked over Niagara
Falls trapped in a barrel. Then I am
The man, the barrel becomes a drum. . .
Not with rumbling we heard last night
When thieves ran down the street with stolen
Sheet-steel, but steam that made me sweat
In my sleep clanging up through the pipes.
I wake like a fevered child, the sweet
Hangover wine like cough syrup that creeps
A turpentine snake in the bronchial tubes.