AT THE RED ROBIN
Two women over there are
sitting at a table: thank you,
says the first, for being so
amusing. Yes, says the other,
but how long do you think
it will be before I become
invisible. The first woman is
Virginia Woolf. The second
woman is Virginia Woolf.
Or me, the first and last
ones are me. The table says to
no one I’m afraid. No one says
what everyone is thinking. This
new age is not tender with its
bees. I see them and I see them
dance away from the windows.
It is kind of like an allergy. It
is kind of like a big fear covered
in diamond dust. I excuse myself
to the bathroom. I’m afraid
of the red god eye of the automatic
flusher. I’m afraid of how
many there are in the world.
Something has to happen. Me,
I once halved a strawberry and set it
on ice. You mapped the
topography of a crushed paper bag.
There was rolling thunder then
like trucks for rent. I moved over
you in the afternoon, and
a book on heaven became heaven.
We have worn our blouses of burnt
toast into the emergency room like
we own the place. Remember
how gently I eased your arm
out of the beehive? Remember
that handful of honey? Still there
are days I ask you, Are these your
pantyhose on the stove? Is this
your haircut in the hall? The
floor is bubbling and too close.
It is the color of the news.
Let’s please put a stop to the on
and on. We have always been
our own eggs. I write one
hundred things very slowly. And
then I throw fireballs at them.
But you are the copper I
asked for. You are good clean water.