You and I sleep under glass
and let the caravans
pass
by our frozen fingers
we send absent friends
phone signals
to color the sea on the postcard
that says:
The Russians are in orbit
tea biscuits on the table
in baby food they found
metal shavings
and everything stays
the same, same, same…
and then we talk about the moon
and bark at the TV screen
late into the night
a new day breaks
young and strong
gnawers of the mammoth bone
head into a better tomorrow
and you’d much rather
veins slit
go to sleep
in a bathtub full of warm water
life is full of bad options
you found that out while you
looked through
the dirty window of your sublet
at poplars
dancing in the wind
love is the privilege of the poor
love’s the nanny of the female heart
and that’s why all the best poems
don’t talk of love
and all you want to know is
where your life has gone
and why you spent ten years
with the man you now hate
you and I sleep under glass
and see trains off
into the blackest night
we wave white squares
press our cheeks
to the tracks and let
our tears freeze once again
I was on my way down
into the city’s bowels
when you said
you’re rushing into old age
and I’m not ready for that yet
I want to take you somewhere
where there’s more light
and people are
happier
but I just flip the record
the plastic crackles in the shaded room
electricity
electricity
electricity