It was during the waiter meme scare, that was the short of it.
Some had furloughs by the hour, others came crisp to focus.
I was lemon-faced, just jungling around, honking for light in
hallways, noticing the kilowatt immensity of a bathroom stall.
Blindly, my cavities called me to questioned office. I reached
around for eiderdown allowance, a tort’s incestuous waiting.
This was, after all, but yesterday. How else am I supposed
to suppose life significant, aghast in aisles of T84 calculators,
febrile as wrinkled springs spigotting off a billboard Danube?
I’m a resurrection junkie and collect culture’s dejected viscera
for trace evidence of what some call the afterlife’s afterlife.
Robust statuary. Like the scene of Psyche & Memory. Draw
closer now. Send in the closer now. Give me a chaser now.
I leak and shed off shadows strictly diurnal in solemnity.
On the moonscape, a pimpled giraffe-float was but the sky.
And you, chump, were scenery to spare—but I cared. A lot.
I invited you in, a tube for tawdry gawking bellwethers.
Pumpernickel rode bitch. Cry moaned. Each was his own.
