I
Before I leave I must
open the bay window,
clean the litter box,
toss the salad in one
bowl and out the other,
close the faucets tight,
take my morning shower,
break fast with tea, danish,
Allegra, Zoloft, and prunes
for continuity.
II
And nothing happens
on a good day, I am alone,
no voices whispering about
me, you, or the lovely garden
over there with lobelia,
and lilacs blooming in
artificial light next to the
escalator going down,
into the linens and things
hidden near Mrs. Field's cookies.
III
Coming home is like
crossing a blade of ice,
so easy to glide along
until the chasm on the stoop
catches at my soul and flings
me back into my ground glass
world where even the moonlight
blinds me to touch until I
must tear at my eyes
and weep over the sores
of my hands.
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