and laugh aloud. . . I will read David Shumate's prose poems
and cry about Kafka's love life. . . I will read the new issue of "Poetry"
and not buy it because I believe they are poetry snobs: snobs,
I tell you. . .I will stop looking up. . . I will hum with the fluorescent lights. . .
I will smell fresh-baked cookies and have willpower. . .
my heart will begin to beat with the barista's claps on the espresso machine
and poetry will save me again, I just know it.
The house we left behind came back
online, back on the market;
the young soon-to-be-weds
who bought it--full price!
(How could they afford a home
that we'd spent half our lives
slowly working up to?)--
no longer seem to want it:
Could it be because we wouldn't
sell it to them furnished, complete
with all the things we'd carefully
arranged, all the things they wanted
us to leave behind because they craved
the look of an easy, well-made life?
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