Again I opened all the mailboxes
at the bottom of our road,
left the doors hanging open
like mouths – opera tenors
singing the Toreador song
from Carmen:
“Toreador-a,
don’t spit on the floor-a,
use the cuspidor-a
that is what it’s for-a!”
Nearby woodpeckers, an aviary on loudspeaker,
hammer out the Anvil Chorus.
My wife, in full detective mode:
“What is wrong with you!?!”
wants my head examined
by Dr. Edward Anthony Spitzka
who autopsied Leon Czolgosz’s brain
after he shot McKinley.
My mind that bubbles like an aquarium
in the dark with the light on –
radiant GloFish, neon tetras,
darting guppies –
where even the tiny plastic diver
gets the bends.
Across the room
grandfather clock's round belly – a cello
that plucks and murmurs
the hours – time now
to eat my telephone
and speak from the gut.
For Shay’s Word Garden and TSM