Tuesday 3.50: Poem

A picnic of nightlife

Imagine yourself having
a child.
The experience
is so avant-garde.

Everything bores you.
You wear sunglasses
all the time.

You scrub your hands
with lemon soap
so the whole house smells
like lemons.

You ignore the coffee,
which upsets your stomach,
and the cats
that follow you around.

You become
small
as the hallway cabinet
where your wife keeps yarn
and the Christmas stuff.

It's a needy hallway.
An electric candle
picks you clean
of wooden thoughts.

The twin hard winds
of capture
and judgement
roll into one when
you walk by,
humming
your little ideas,

a bird looking
for the place in back.