1
Home from work
he grabbed a drink and a banana
then forced himself to stay in bed.
His days had been like cars
in highway traffic jam—
bumper to bumper to all horizons
noise, exhaust both adding
to the numbing view.
But one of these days
their car would sprout up helicopter blades.
He’d push the button in the dash
and leave the tarmac far below.
He’d go to destinations far
and hover valleys lush and green
and romp with helium balloons set free
and honking geese.
And if he tired of that
do food drops and rescues
run the grannies to the bargains
hurl confetti where there
was cheering up to do
(then later suck it up
with the longest vacuum hose
so he wouldn’t add to litter) .
2
All the bouquet does
the one beside their bed
is ‘be there’ looking pretty—
greens exploding from the crystal vase—
with fireworks of red and white
and purple and some yellow.
All it does
is be there looking pretty—
but it sucks up water
like a hundred straws—
to keep alive its beauty.
It’s time for her to be bouquet.
It’s time for her to drink
the waters that replenish beauty.
But where to put her? Where put him?
Is there a place where living
doesn’t suck the juices from them?
3
From their room
with window to the west
from their bed he sees old sol—
his sinking to his rest
his blurring till he disappears—
then rose and salmon mist
before the blue that makes this Friday—
its impression—pleasant, sweet
like the TV moment after Jimmy D.—
The Shnozz— turned and walked
the path of lighted circles
on the ground, away
into the dark, then turned
to us his watchers
speaking gravelly and warm
‘Good night, Mrs. Calabash
wherever you are.’
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