Ringing. Ringing.
Mary, Jane, Pat—
rooms everywhere are
ringing. Rattan
furniture is rotting
along with my
breakfast. Ladies,
my morning bowl
of cereal and glass
of orange juice
ringing. Children
at play are ringing
and the cars that
confront them are
ringing, are slowing
to observe their
of the reclining
chairs that await
them in the junk-
yard, in the locus
of all rot where
everything is rotten,
everything rotting.
Ladies, everything is
ringing as you
always said it would.
But I didn’t
know then. I didn’t
listen. I knew
neither of rot nor
ringing, and now
your words aren’t
ringing—they sustain
pitch. They arc like
swans in my cochlea’s
there and I ask you—
ladies, please—for three
more minutes’ sleep.