Another Poem that Never Made It to Fruition

This one's not so bad. As Maxine Kumin, famed-now-dead poet, who I hated, would have said, "There's too much 'furniture' in this poem." Fuck that. At least this idea was in easy but vivid imagery.

On Any Average Day

I could catch butterflies on my tongue

Never mind that I hate bugs

Although I believe these are insects.

I could stare cross-eyed at its design

And cry when it flies away.

I could advise a balloon

Not to float near sharp wires

Give it directions to my house

And cry when it loses its air.

I could sell a hen a lottery ticket

Plan how we'd spend the money

Copy the winning numbers

Announced by a sequin-clad woman on TV

And cry when the hen doesn't win.

I could let you wash my hair in the shower

Savor the massage of thick oatmeal shampoo

Bend down and kiss your thighs and their goosebumps

Pretend for once I'm not claustrophobic

And smile.

(That one was for Craig, 1993)