modern woman, cold salad

modern woman, cold salad of disbelief,
I want to break you all apart
and take your breakfast, steam
your bloodlines—Hades or some Trinidad.

knock all week, brass on oak
like a turquoise scattering back
and forth in a bathtub until you
find the drain, then a lead ess pipe.

hello conquistador! go expand your
neighborhood, allow the plague for boredom.
find 'outside' as your father left it since
he never expected you to follow.

a swarm of pores, weak
but your skin's still living. "ah, Andrew
you're very kind."  keep listening then—
a new priority, girl!

crush the alphabet, at least.  your elbow is an ell
lead pipe on the keyboard. you're a lovely dialtone,
there are no vocals, no pulse on the line.
you are all lead pipes, it seems.

go to hell, you

go to hell, you transcendentalist, I'm still here in the thick of it on the 23rd st exit by a man with the crumpled sign, "every little bit helps."

and come swim with me in reality, in an explanation of winter, all bitterness but bold self-miracle of survival.

I stalled, while you planned your escape through the turnstiles of the fairgrounds, your parents' kingdom, and your love books.

soon is "we're so glad to have you back," but I've run out of canned soup and ice has me wrapped up here, buried in a sunday paper.

it's monday, so forgive me tuesday and I'll be welcome again.  I'm no threat to your sleep, I won't stir much. can I give him my gloves and hat, and you what's left over?

I need no gravity to fall into my old order, but give me a week to control my mouth.