It is sunny,
not a good day for a revolution.
Instead, I plan to go to the drugstore,
buy some soap and cough drops,
then pick up my shirts from Erin Cleaners
where a red-haired woman always stands
behind the counter. I might mention
to her that she’s oppressed. Yes!
By the British because she’s Irish.
As a worker because she must sweat all day
in the laundry. And as a woman ruled
by patriarchal society.
Or maybe I’ll just say,
“It’s nice outside.”
I’ve come here
of your churches
and your clip-
in love with K.
with my own
with their guns
that my parents
your marsh field
the night sky
and Russian tanks
where the statue
Fire Alarm 4:30 a.m.
You pop up in bed,
like bread from a toaster,
then smell smoke in the hallway –
you dress in torn jeans
and stuff your poems in the refrigerator –
you stand in front of the building
in cold wind and drizzling rain,
look for the fire truck to arrive,
then find Chuck and Cathy bleary-eyed
and carrying Sasha in a cardboard box –
Lisa staggers down wearing a nightgown and sweater,
and you all laugh as Chuck says,
It’s a surprise going away party for Lisa –
the fireman says some guy
left food on the stove and is lucky to be alive –
you climb the stairs back to your room
and lie on your bed
to find the night stretched out before you
endless hours in length,
and you remember that Allen Ginsberg once said,
When the muse calls – answer
the dishes lie
in the sink
white with soap
then sends them
to the cupboard
Come March or April
bugs invade my condo.
They stream in by the tens and twenties.
Ants enter in caravans complete
with tents and dancers of the seven veils,
with spits they set up to toast
the breadcrumbs I forgot to sweep up.
Spiders build castles in the corners,
while beetles start up jazz bands.
Millipedes hold hundred-centimeter dashes
and time them with the clock on my DVR.
There’s no use trying to stop them.
It’s best to put on a T-shirt
and try to blend in.