What do you want me to say?
Like a bent wire I let radio signals
tie themselves about me.
The hearts of larger animals
signal intent like a high-wire act:
what’s up there leaves us smitten
and then leaves us. In commercials
they always get it right the first time.
X-rays confirm our first suspicion: there are things
we should have done. At times I’m seized.
Like a minor sitcom character, I appear at the edge
of scenes. There are those who say love is a symptom
of the middle class, leather pants a symptom
of middle-class resentment. On the more remote
planets our laundry loses its studio crispness.
It’s not a matter of trying harder.
Believe me. I’ve tried.