I liked to see the Cape Cod fenced
in with white picket, and bushes

green which obscured the backyard,
clenched by thicket down.  

This is where I loved you nights,
as I might have stolen

a cigarette and a beer
by your side, never long enough

because children 
were a full time job.

This painting’s music is 1950 time
and the pain between my ears

is mood, because I’m nothing
special for us, or to you.

This is me,
knowing I can’t fix this.

Are you ready for it?
Neither can you.

I stand in the bedroom closet
looking at pale yellows and blues,

whites and green capsules,
hoping to hide—

odorless, concealable, anonymous,
better than whiskey.

Maybe this will save us
from our sins.

A tag team in and out the door.
A broken waltz hobbling across the floor.

           In America we make sports 
           cars by the thousands
           to light up the roadways
           with testicular screams.
           I know.  I live on a strip now.
           They howl passing cities
           until doctors pronouce 
           the cause of death.
           Do you hear them?  

Over coffee, I smile at a friend
glad for the lack of complication.

She can’t stop smiling,
it’s good to see you back.

This isn’t extraordinary,
but for what it lacks.

Let’s think of something else
to look at she said.