Call it “dinner at home” when laundry hasn’t been done for years.
Mice who are soft gray do not feel it, neither the roaches.
Spiders the weight of a mote of dust, scurrying like a raised cloud of dust,
cover the furniture with folds of pale webbing.
Every piece is united through their diligence.
Their work dilates within an empty room where only the buckling linoleum,
swept by waves of vermin, remain free of their elaborations.
The bent antennae of Papa Roach are twitching still so quickly.
He guides the family to a darker shade within the shade of the floor molding.
He can tell from a distance of almost five feet the ripe desolation
of our leftover custard’s last stand. If any, it would be he
who could tell us whatever became of Baby Custer,
bastard scion of conquistadors.
At the fork of Grand and Eldridge, the opening of a heritage breed BBQ
invades Moby’s macrobiotic vegan cafe with the smell of short ribs.
Baby Custer slathers butter on his peanut butter sandwich
and is then and there denied entrance to the men’s room.
Custer storms the bakery, blasting through bulgur, leaving a trail
of rat droppings and rye on his way to the gold coast.
O Baby, I said, where’d you go-go?
Why’d you leave me feeling so low.
I’m blue the whole way through
every day the bluebird sings another tune.
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