Why My Son Isn't Fit To Go To War

        Recently, his second wife
        left for a serious job
        position in Bahamas.

        Cherry gives him rashes.

        He spots six paper-cut
        scars on his right hand.

        He never turns down
        a green salad or dresses
        for anyone's funeral.

        Mimetic fatigues bring out
        blemishes on his face.

        He forgets to write.

        In winter, he counts sheep
        way past the 1900s, like
        aspirins down his throat.

        Often he stares into space.

        His poems do not use caps
        or punctuation marks.

        I fill in the blanks.

        In our correspondence,
        we never talk about
        weather or mention love.

       The Implications of Lampshades

        The colour never matched
        with the upholstery.

        Like drugged moths,
        nicotine stained the edges;
        yellow is unbecoming
        not only in jaundiced patients.

        There was a time when
        the lady next door offered
        to crochet covers in return
        for small favours: brown sugar,
        matches, a sip of Madeira,
        euthanasia for her cat.

        She left the same way
        one of the bulbs sparked
        before turning black.

        Geckoes were attracted by
        the heat. The open-book on
        your lap was marked by shadows
        of tails. This is where
        the tale gets horny: The white
        lumps hidden at the corner
        of your bed are unhatched eggs.

        Every night green insects
        were reborn, dogs dug through
        freshly turned soil, nails grew,
        a chapter in the novel ended.

        Overhead, like a genealogy of
        kings, the stars were going out.

       If I Hadn't Been Dreaming

        I'd have sworn the daffodils were
        feistier. They're plastic, and
        Faith'd been gone for years.

        She left her crucifix on the wall.
        It's valuable antique, she
        insisted every time I looked.

        Sometimes a ladder appears by
        the window; I cross several rooms
        to avoid it. My sneakers squeak.

        The man by the bar, a museum
        curator, advises it is best to put
        relics away in individual boxes.

        In another dream, I'd like to have
        been the younger man. My analyst
        says I need an appointment first.

        One of these nights I'll get
        my car keys back from the doorman
        who keep driving me home on purpose.