The world is a garbage heap, of course—
an exotic, labyrinthine garbage heap replete
with nudist beaches and crystal cathedrals.
Light reflects around it like a racquetball
narrowly missing the earlobe of a person
who feels athletic despite evidence
to the contrary. Light and rain, alternately,
plus good, old-fashioned, human insistence
on things being a certain way make
the garbage heap what it is: A nest
of complicated joy, etc.
Last night I dreamed
about lions and wolves congregating
along the edges of my driveway. The former
Minister of Mines and Mine Workers (miners)
had left her tiara on a box in the mud room,
and I desperately tried to text her, but I tell you,
thumb-swiping on my mobile device
felt like stirring green tea with an omelet!
Yet the beautiful, squirming creatures
lining my gravel drive, sleeping in the brush,
the bush, drooping in the hemlock, the lions
and wolves coiled under crepe myrtle,
snoozing under willow, near propane tank,
etc., made the whole place dreary
and feeling abandoned, like my heart did
when the men came and took the boxes
of books accompanied by an uninvented aroma.
But I had tricked the butler into charging
everything to Mom’s Amex. . . (drumroll)
• • •