again,
how I will miss this upstart greenness
after I lose it all and am thrown
from this home, which will be soon.
It’ll be someone else living here then, hiding
an emergency key in a bucket,
up late snaking the bath drain or early
doing sit-ups on the painted floor.
It’ll be someone else walking a mile and a half
to the store called Magpie, buying
a gift for whichever friend’s baby, rattle
or small shirt with a transit map.
The name is meant to conjure up a gorgeous, inky
creature culling treasures to bring
back, but if you really get close
to a magpie’s nest, you see it’s all trash.
Tea
I can’t get away from it.
Felted-up reenactors shoving a great fake crate of it
into the Harbor and jeering.
After the tour group leaves, they fish it
back out and towel it off,
unbutton their waistcoats to smoke.
At the nearby counter-service place, there are two
jars next to the register, and dropping bills
into one or the other is how
we affirm our commitments—why should we ever
pay decently, unless it occurs
in this fever of rivalry that passes for fun?
What are our choices and might I suggest
LESS IS MORE against MORE IS MORE?
Or IT COULD HAPPEN ANYTIME against IT HAPPENS
ALL THE TIME? Or how about THIS VIOLENCE
FOREVER UNDOES A PERSON
against THAT CONTENTION CAN ONLY
BE ROOTED IN THE RETROGRADE
VIEW THAT A WOMAN IS EITHER INTACT OR SHE’S
NOT? I always thought I’d made
peace with THIS PLANET, and yet here I am
shoving all my cash in the jar
marked ANYPLACE ELSE. There isn’t enough
money in the world.
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