Surly, unambitious
the flies languidly
loop the loop near the porch ceiling
It is what passes for
Spring here

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
watching tv
doing the crosswords

Anthropological studies
tell us:
In some societal setups
(Oceania, etc)
the women do all the work

Men of superior talent
and training
should spend their time as I do. . .
metaphysical speculations
literary work

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.