Grown up jobs.
When I am sprawled,
Naked,
Listening to the
Bitter
Yowl
Of
Ani Difranco
On my cold,
Wood
Floor,
I watch them collect
On their front porch
In trousers
With travel mugs,
And
[I'm sure]
Kleenex packs nestled neatly
Inside the
Utilized pockets of
Their
Leather bags.
I bet my neighbors have
A car payment
I could never afford.
Because their SUV
Has all the ring-ting-tings
Of something expensive.
I imagine it is so pricey it purrs
Despite slick engagements
With weathered roads
That grip, and taunt, and tick.
I am so naked here.
So singular.
So
Juxtaposed.
Every morning,
I see Wife get up and run
An unfathomable
Marathon.
And (as you can imagine),
Wife has
Skinny
Little
Toothpick
Legs.
So, when I'm lodging bacon
Down the wet canal of
My gaping throat
And she comes trotting up
From the downside of
A steep hill,
I consider offering her
Some
Animal
Protein.
Because,
Hey!
What are neighbors for?
But then, I consider her frilly apron
That she sports when
She steps on the back porch to
Let
Golden Furry Dog
Out
And
That is an apron that says:
"Only steamed vegetables,
My darling."
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I bet my neighbors have hot sex all the time
While I am only a couple hundred feet away
Reading books about how to sell yarn products,
The mild acidity of a praised green tea,
And all the reasons
They say
Pluto
Should no longer
Be a planet.
I bet my neighbors make decisions like that...
Decisions, like:
Stripping a well known
Member of the solar system of
Its planethood.
I bet they overlook the value
Of a weathered shoe,
Or a Cafe Bustelo can after all the grounds
Have been
Filtered and
Used.
And,
I bet
When
Paralleled with an
Erect metropolis
They are
Overwhelmed with
Retail options,
And have marked them on
Their map with
The overpriced ink
Of a superior
Red pen.
I bet the neighbors have grown up jobs.
And I cannot help but wonder if this would
Hinder their
Ability to
Study the ridges
Of the
Floor
On the city bus
[In the event that they ever rode it].
I wonder if they would be captivated
By the flaked off
Glitter of a
Dim night prostitute,
Or if
The smell of
Diner
Intermingled with the absorbent flannel coat
Of the slooping
Alcoholic
Would remind them
Of their
Tired fathers.
I wonder if they would consider
The Eclectic Knit Lady-
Composed of mismatched
Shoes,
Track marks,
And gummed food
And say:
"Here.
What's mine is yours.
Because,
We are all composed of
Oxygen,
And water,
Of bowel movements,
And eloquence."
Or if they would
Retreat,
Concave,
Sigh quietly
With cool,
Mint-coated breath:
"Jesus, lady. Get a real job."
Because their SUV
Has all the ring-ting-tings
Of something expensive.
I imagine it is so pricey it purrs
Despite slick engagements
With weathered roads
That grip, and taunt, and tick.
I am so naked here.
So singular.
So
Juxtaposed.
Every morning,
I see Wife get up and run
An unfathomable
Marathon.
And (as you can imagine),
Wife has
Skinny
Little
Toothpick
Legs.
So, when I'm lodging bacon
Down the wet canal of
My gaping throat
And she comes trotting up
From the downside of
A steep hill,
I consider offering her
Some
Animal
Protein.
Because,
Hey!
What are neighbors for?
But then, I consider her frilly apron
That she sports when
She steps on the back porch to
Let
Golden Furry Dog
Out
And
That is an apron that says:
"Only steamed vegetables,
My darling."
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I bet my neighbors have hot sex all the time
While I am only a couple hundred feet away
Reading books about how to sell yarn products,
The mild acidity of a praised green tea,
And all the reasons
They say
Pluto
Should no longer
Be a planet.
I bet my neighbors make decisions like that...
Decisions, like:
Stripping a well known
Member of the solar system of
Its planethood.
I bet they overlook the value
Of a weathered shoe,
Or a Cafe Bustelo can after all the grounds
Have been
Filtered and
Used.
And,
I bet
When
Paralleled with an
Erect metropolis
They are
Overwhelmed with
Retail options,
And have marked them on
Their map with
The overpriced ink
Of a superior
Red pen.
I bet the neighbors have grown up jobs.
And I cannot help but wonder if this would
Hinder their
Ability to
Study the ridges
Of the
Floor
On the city bus
[In the event that they ever rode it].
I wonder if they would be captivated
By the flaked off
Glitter of a
Dim night prostitute,
Or if
The smell of
Diner
Intermingled with the absorbent flannel coat
Of the slooping
Alcoholic
Would remind them
Of their
Tired fathers.
I wonder if they would consider
The Eclectic Knit Lady-
Composed of mismatched
Shoes,
Track marks,
And gummed food
And say:
"Here.
What's mine is yours.
Because,
We are all composed of
Oxygen,
And water,
Of bowel movements,
And eloquence."
Or if they would
Retreat,
Concave,
Sigh quietly
With cool,
Mint-coated breath:
"Jesus, lady. Get a real job."
