Poem a Day for January 8

Hey there twirling baton.

How’s your pothole memory doing on these Frankenstein stairs?
Are your parents sharpening their eyes down rifle barrels the length of psychologists?
Are the sandwiches in the waiting room too precise for you to eat?
Do doctors take off their human masks when no one’s watching?
Does your British museum body yearn for cold floors?

Each accordion squeeze of your mind gives birth to the notion that even though death will win, you will make it a war or attrition.

Each bartender boyfriend will get you closer to the shadowed wing of Eve’s lesson.

You think maybe it wasn’t a snake in the garden of Eden. Maybe it was a chameleon.

These keys have dust on them.




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