THEY DON'T TALK, SILLY
Tell me what was the punch line to
our joke about two talking monkeys?
This morning, I remember flamingo shirts
on Fitzroy Street, alligator boots, a boa
the size of an ostrich, and your wish
for a penguin in a bathtub, but I fumble
when it gets to primates. You did
only tell me once in Amston, the morning
we helped your drunk mother draw cups
of milk for the blind cats. I think
it had something to do with the time
we carried Maria, the golden retriever,
for miles so she'd sleep by the creek
but all she did was gnaw on the sand.
WORSE THINGS
Everyone knows the story about
how your wife went crazy locked
in a closet waiting for your voice to
return like a television long after it
has gone off, they also know your
feet stuck out over the bedrails and
that there are never enough pillows when
you have a bullet in your head, but I
wonder what you thought being carried
from the theater because I know that
when my mother carried me home after
I nearly broke my arm, I saw myself
pitching buckets of minnows at a gator
farm and one night after waiting too long
pulling back an arm of driftwood.
