Poem Answering a Question My Great-Grandmother Might Ask Now

No action is told in a Buddhist poem,
but I’m not a Buddhist and this is only

a part-time poem. I won’t lie for a line,
not even to say someone owes you

desire. The feeling of the South is the feeling
of being in the middle of nowhere

and it being quiet—it’s an alignment
issue, and a crowding problem.

Then the cloud architects get greedy
(the rest of us agree cops are haram).

My foot stays broken, my finger still bent,
but as you know I’m not a runner,

not a pianist. I like a socially reasonable
amount of blood and discipline.

It’s early, it’s blue—let’s take a fantasy
of fusion and eat off the ground

while I keep faith in trains, and other modes
of tchotchke distribution.