Imagine an oversized clock
strapped to a man’s barrel chest,
his hands clutching a bomb
like a bride and her bouquet.
Watch him walk
the crowded aisle of a train
running behind schedule
and a child
counting down the seconds
on his bird bone hands–
this is how I pass my days.
Of course,
my wiring is off
just enough not to explode.
If there is one old woman
soiling herself at the cafe,
there are a dozen others
who smell it and won’t crack a joke.
Unless they’re nose-dumb
I don’t know how they stay on track.
Right now I’m struck ridiculous
with hunger, too famished to finish
writing this letter to my friend
who is dead anyway. I stare
at the floral stationary
while I eat chip after chip.
I’m sure one measure of depression
is appetite, it’s absence
or double-presence.
Either way we suffer
this flavorless existence. Love,
while you were at work
I cleaned the living room windows so well
the most adorable sparrow
charged to her death.
This, too, I cleaned.
Gulf Stream Magazine 