Three Pieces

oh, you heavy thing, you hard life
that swings & swings.
stuck on hold for 7 minutes
while the nearest star
like an egg yolk runs her slow marathon
across the kitchen table.
everything waning. a type of brutal wanting.
today, everything requires a phone call.
do what you will with automation,
it does not know your name.
it does not remember the bulb
screwed into the ceiling, tethered by one chain, dancing.
the receptionist laughs, she says “aren’t you old school.”
no one expects you to show up. all the buildings
empty. dust & hissing neon, these cardboard towns
you drive through & never stop in.
to pay rent, you’ll be charged $60. to pay for parking,
they want a good finger cut off at the furthest joint.
today, everything walks right out on you.
money leaping from the countertop. your parents dying
& knowing they’re dying
& no one admits it. someone is calling you the wrong thing.
calling to collect bills & credit
& you wait by the mailbox for a new name.
you wait like a dog.

a civet is wrung loosed
from its jeweled collar,
bounding between the aisles
of a supermarket you grew up going to,
with your grief of childhood
tucked between the shelves
of panko & instant stuffing,
now this feline-weasel wriggling
between the romaine.
you think “who of us belong here, anyway?”
as a woman pulls back her skirt & shrieks.
who of us is not also an animal
let run through the grocery store
like your manic depressive grandmother
the first day she was issued her license
after 42 years of motherhood;
who then spent the evening upending boxes
of cornflakes in an Ames,
closed now for 2 decades & still vacant.
little civet, wrangled from the lobster tank,
as beautiful, shining, as a wishing coin,
are we not all lost & extravagant?
are we not all looking to hook our teeth
into the hand that pulls us back
from confused & bounding pleasure
like every unruly child, like any woman
allowed the freedom of one day?

the clown kicks like a horse or streetfight,
is short two teeth, wears a shiner
like a purple heart
pinned glistening just below the browbone.
you wouldn’t expect this from his shymouth,
would you? the slight of hand he turns over,
his face milkwhite & all powder.
he bleeds whatever is convenient: ribbon
or pie-filling or bouncy balls
belligerent & gone a mess on the sidewalk.
someone is always delivering the smack
to the back of the head. someone is always
introducing a little pain to his blood,
trying to punch out a laugh or a half-flock
of doves. grab the clown by the collar of his shirt:
he is all feathers. he melts like snow in new york june.
watch him when he whistles, the pinch
of a limp he carries, the violence dried
& split on the bottom lip.