No, sir, I am not your baby, not your twenty-dollar                shot of tequila, not your excise tax on petroleumjelly, your high-risk dirigible in the bomb-alicious                sky filled with lies, the radio highs that lastthree minutes tops, the shuck and jive of yes ma’am,                doublethink spam, drink-the-Kool-AidMarxist sham, the wham up-against-the-wall                cattle call of the true believers, left and right,the slight lisp on the edge of doom. O no, Daddy-o,                I cannot swim out to your island of swoon,or the two-bit room in the Alligator Motel, that hell,                with its sharp teeth and open jaws, the seesawback and forth between high noon and doom,                that tune. No, baby, I’m sitting here all alone,grown woman, looking back on all the tricks, the love                sick delirium that blasts off to the moonand then dissolves into a rule book and curdled milk,               the silk cave of raven wings, the slinkyrinky-dink dance with death, the breathless sigh. O my,                I’m saying no to the bye-bye lullaby,half-hearted whisky-and-rye apocalypse afternoon,               the harpoon-in-my-gut regret that says yesto everything, sings soprano in the church choir, mucks                in the mire outside the front door, the storm guttermutter of cant, the torn dress and sweaty hankering                to do good, so here I am in a rococo imbroglioof Hamlet and moonshine, the backwoods banter                that begets shame, the no-name oblivionof staying on the bus as it travels through the war zone                and lets off at what was once home.