On the morning of the reading,
the room looks raw. You are not quite
yourself after the flu. Your poems
are out of date. In two weeks
the world of outraged statement
has moved into a high tech bomb area.
The newscasts are pure poetry.
Your sickness still sweats out of you.
What is significant; their father’s hunt
with machine guns, automatic rifles;
everything is known at the molecular level;
the possibilities of sex have gone into
the twenty-first-century. Finally all
the poor die and we are left with only
the sick. Now we are all caring. Caring
is incorporated. It rallies on the stock
market. Caring is up two points. Euthanasia
is even with pork bellies. Caring is now done
by a discreet squad. They have gone back
to the swastika. Because of the fumes they
have all shaved their heads. The sick are
again marked with tatooed blue numbers.
You decide when they come they will find you have
hung yourself in the closet. They will fumigate.