We forget which recent elimae poem this is a parody of. Who cares really?
Autumn came and went. Winter came and is still sleeping in the spare room. Then the nightmares start. Slip ‘n Slide, sharp stab of a rock underneath. The telegraph clouds. Finally, a text message: married the deli guy, new condo, get to steppin’. The nightmares start. Every night, twice on Sundays, the nightmares. And the bed shrunk like beds do when you’ve put them through the dryer. I dried it I was out of clothespins and it was raining. On the boombox: Bat Out Of Hell. Get to steppin’. Married the deli guy. Nothing looks like itself. Then liturgies: pretend to do semaphore with the blinds. Lock the door and swallow the key. Don’t step on the crack or your mother gets raped by Hells Angels. Foot broken now, flat like a pancake. The fear of kickball. The mailman arrives. Suave, crooner, probably won American Idol one year. He doesn’t have a song to sing today. Offer him a drink. He sips and passes out. Forgot about that. Amazing how long rufies keep. Must I live this way. High noon, clocks frozen. Get up, stupid.