Domestic Bliss

The subway is always crowded with riff raff,
businessmen, dirty people, punks, nuts,

businessmen are the worse,
kill a baby for the deal,

the bag lady munches on old bandages,
dry blood is still good she smiles,

a black man hand in hand
with a big white girl,

she laughs pyramids I wouldn’t claim.
I wouldn’t claim them unless ordered so

by the wife, a bell made of yesterday
blocks my way, I search my pockets

for the sky, whose panties are these
you ask me when you do the laundry

oh never mind I forgot I bought them you laugh.
I panicked and it too a minute

for me to realize my innocence.
At the North Pole, a puddle of ice.

In Africa, my giraffe neck shortened quickly,
here, the pulp of my manhood

waves down traffic at a busy intersection,
my married daughter

knocks on the door with grandkids.
I drink broken glass and smile,

I boil the features of the moon, I scour
the shoulders of the sea,

hilarious love in a nightgown
would only disappoint

as it whistles its favorite color.
I’m too tired to argue with war and peace.