Well, You Never Know
We’re watching That Girl. Ann Marie
flies a kite with her face on it. Maybe
in the episode that would have
opened a sixth season, the kite
crash lands on her face,
pokes her eye out. Donald
dumps her for a 20/20
vision. It would never happen
that way, you say—Ann will land
a great part and become a star,
not lose an eye. Well,
you never know, I say, clutching
the couch’s armrest, wondering
will you bop me over the head
some day with a waffle iron
all because I forgot to buy milk? No,
you wouldn’t. Yet I sneak
the waffle iron to the basement,
hide it behind a broken corn popper,
flop down beside you, now clipping
your toe nails, lining them up
on the table, a kite’s tail.
Ululating
women announce
a marriage
we could get married
if we lived in a land
where freedom no longer
paces in a cage
would we
happily combine income taxes
and towels
thousands of 45s
and a few trowels would
we rest on a porch glider
counting fireflies
and sex
like the crabby joke why marry
the cow when you already get
the milk but
we aren’t cows ... wait
I hear ululating women
and men
should we run
away or ululate
even louder,
accept what comes
no matter what
March Morning
While ranuncula corms soak in
a cereal bowl, you come
downstairs in a suit, handsome
as a mausoleum. The one pomegranate
on our potted tree is almost red.
My parents call. I want to ask how
it feels to be over eighty. It seems
indiscreet and I’m scared to hear,
so I mention our cats. After lunch,
I’ll dig ranuncula holes. Local cars
go by way too fast, buds
that open for a day,
drop off.