My floor is shining because it is fire.
My ceiling is shining because it is air.
You are sweeping the future ahead of you
like luck. It's ok, no one's listening
to the laugh track of your life.
The sick call in their jokes,
but they remember them wrong.
There's the one about the three stick-men
and their drinks, and there's the doctor
who knocks but never enters.
The sick call in. You lick your cobwebs
and the corners glitter. Everyone cares
though there is no one who is clean.
I am not compelled to help,
resting as I am, on the doorjamb
of your perfectible world.
New Issues Poetry & Prose