Going Places
Get out of bed. Got out of bed.
I do what I’m told, erase myself
for breakfast, shake the naughty lint
of sleep into the sink.
Go figure. Two crows have taken ill
near the sugar bowl. Not a wink between them.
What’s all this talk of infiltration,
cows in the bean dip, raspberries on the soap?
Horoscope says I’ve got it all wrong.
I should be shucking pansies in Ottawa,
frisking glowworms outside Beirut. Enough
is enough. If my hairline recedes
any further, please inform my agent,
the one with the pigtails and carbuncular handshake.
Ah well, you know what they say. And if you don’t,
nothing, nothing I can do will help.