My stanza advances discouragably.
My skin’s the wall between the things I call “me,”
and if at first I don’t believe I succeed,
I look exactly like what I can carry.
Body, the; city, the; economy, the—
there’s no disaster like this middle classing,
my trying to jerk a word into the day.
(Got what I got the odd way: wrote some poems
and some people gave me some money for ‘em,
though they’re still mine for whatever that’s not worth.)
Surrounded by downtown’s ghostly social skills,
I’d like to tear history a new angel
from one of those phone books I no longer use,
and if no one wants it then that’s what happens;
I make no move to move out of the index.
But here, worriedly cupping a cloudy eye,
I understand I need my little fear box.