The Cacographer

Letter from Tucson

It’s been rough, you see,
here beneath the roof,
the cracks overhead thin and menacing
like so many secretarial smiles,
and my refrigerator sagging
from fullness or wet.

It’s rough, because honestly,
who knows.
who knows here when the ceiling
or even the walls will fall
spinning away and leaving,
what?
me? Leaving me and the
thousands of empty cups,
the single chair at the stretching oak table?

Shake my head, with no one to see it.

It’s been rough here,
feeling the air so large
in such a small place
feeling the thud of my clothes.

The tv player reinvents celebrities
from stock
and who knows, who knows
where I’ve placed the remote?

I remember, well, what is there to remember.
everyone remembers, I’m telling the dry sink
and the bookshelves full of yellow,
but they’re not listening.

And what should I do?
what should I do if you come along in furs?
what should I do if he
oh you say ours comes along in black or pink?
should I say have an apple or some milk?

I should, I should.

The ceiling is thinner,
I thought to tell the manager’s mailbox,
the cracks are pulling apart the walls like vines,
the rough walls, and my so many cupboards,
I have so many cupboards.

Should I speak spanish to him?
You never spoke spanish to me.

These days I can see the sun
through dusty windows, smeared by summer,
I can see the sun turn the yellowing bookcases pink
and the table and the chair vague with motes
and turn the cracks into vines
coax them into ranges and valleys
sending their shadows like troops across the ceiling,
sending everything marching
if only towards twilight.

Even here, the air is flat
and nothing moves except the tv player
and the sun and my withered legs to the pine chair
like a throne
at the elongated heavy table
that always went so well together,
even cracked and spilling dust
like all comfortable things do.

posted by OrangeDrink @ 12:01:00 AM