lizard on the ledge; tues


so you're momentarily enchanted, and so the gables--
like bayonets--point to jet trails overhead

just when you think you've arrived, you have nothing
except fido: good old fido
who frisks against your calf and plays dead in the carport

or maybe you have your 2.3 kids, if your tubes aren't tied--
and why haven't your tubes been tied?

legacy of spittle and legacy of snot: fat emeralds, little gems
a fiefdom in the alveoli at the end of the congested trachea
where, home again from the desert, you might sleepwalk
in a ratty housecoat and a pair of standard issue clogs

where your flagpole shivers above the mailbox
and the postman, in his jeep, cheerfully avoids you

toys in the yard, little boys:
you must not mourn the next year or the next

d.a. powell. chronic.