At The Bookstore

Soon we will move to Connecticut
and be away from this fine mess.

In the bookstore I fought off
giant jellyfish and the foul smell

of windmill after windmill
until my shirt is beautiful

and you are distracted by furniture
they obviously don’t sell,

a cassock’s shrunken voice
from Mayakovsky’s hip

travels thru the spine of the book I hold,
I drop it in alarm,

pick it up, put it on the shelf,
a teenage girl walks by,

lozenges for nipples,
hair as red as a lantern,

poems are not roses I tell you,
poems are not washed dishes,

poems are not vacuumed carpets,
but,hell, I’d lose a battle with Ghandi

if I hadn’t learned the secret
from my elders long ago.