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At the Happiest
Place on Earth, worn-out tots shriek,
deprived of their naps.
Hives. Itching. As if
her body can’t coexist
with her sense of self.
What do bunnies and
chocolate have to do with
a resurrection?
Hands on hip, baby,
sketchbook. Diapering, drawing,
birthing creation.
Now she has time to
blow dry her hair while I rub
away sleep, then drive.
Being green we use
fabric bags old boxes to
wrap gifts. No trees die.
My door open, but
the rooms are empty, thoughts like
forgotten relics.
Has it really been
a month since I told you all
about my day, dear?
Earthworms emerge, splayed
across sidewalks, tender skin
snags on rough concrete.
While I throw pennies
into a coin jar, Bear Stearns
gets a big bailout.
Spring ahead and lose
an hour. What I could have done
in that length of time…
“We’re domestic,” a
blonde woman tells her daughter
in line at the gate.
On a cluttered Queens
balcony he stands, watching
the complex decay.
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