Two coffees deep into Sunday. Cut flowers
a little wilted, désolé. Subscribers’ attention
lather-whipped by a crossword
for an hour, maybe two, then the mind,
which is its own beast, trots off
to a corner and licks its genitals.
Deft as an ASM-114 Hellfire, that stalwart
of air-to-surface missiles, the radio
inserts a hook in the lip. The July sweats
are at it again. I know what you’re thinking
and that’s not it. The air conditioner
with its idiot whirr locks silence
in the closet. If it’s good
maybe it can come out later
and we can all have ice cream.