Eat that February sky, why can’t you?
Its clouds bake
under the sun
you’ve chosen to
forget.
Why can't you
just swallow the
cough medicine
you hate?
The pasteurizing
fluid swims
in a single glass
on the counter-top
alone
and green like a
protein drink
or the brussels
sprouts from last night’s dinner.
But you're
downstairs because
if your nostrils
caught a whiff
you might gag.
See the moth balls
on the windowsill;
if only you’d pick
up those hands,
clutch a dustpan,
and tell your
retirement to remove them!
But I watch you
lie downstairs,
burning less
calories than when you sleep,
with peeling skin
atop those thighs
as milky as over
easy eggs.
I hear the snow in
April and
see that medicine
of vomit, still,
my eyes itch from
the moth balls.
