I was thinking how last night my wife screamed in her sleep,
I’m sorry I ever married you.
When I shook her awake she said, Not you,
Alfred. Who the hell is Alfred? I said.
Obviously the wrong tactic.
I already know about the drummer
I felt sexually inferior to
even when I broke the good china
and climbed on the roof naked
and painted a very crude swordfish on the wall.
He was sort of famous or at least
in a sort of famous band so
I got all their CDs
and couldn’t even hear any drumming,
I guess he was that good.
I felt like a radiator landed on me.
Birds started talking to me and not out of friendliness.
Even when they asked directions, it was hostile.
I’d spend oh nine hours in the grocery store
and look down in my cart and there’s nothing
but some run-down kohlrabi.
Don’t say a damn thing I’d say to the kohlrabi.
Suddenly I couldn’t catch my breath,
pain shot through me like a jellyfish thrown in a fan.
Whoever was on the other side of the door
started turning the knob. The doctor
burst in but kept his back to me,
just stood there shaking and sobbing
while I sat on the table in a paper wrapper
trying to fill the world with light.