DOMESTIC
Another word for kid is it. You always love but do not always like it.
The fathers throw up their hands like weeds in a brawny wind to forsake it.
Even in your mind when it’s middle-aged with a belly it is it.
It’s like dry grain in your esophagus.
It is a pall, a siren, a starving mass of moss in the sunbeam in the kitchen in the chair.
It disappoints near the peacocks always with its headphones on.
Or it wanders the causeway. It’s such a dope at the cabaret.
Plus it’s drunk plus it pees plus it weeps and weeps and weeps.
It carries about it the aroma of the need for a paramedic.
It is the opposite of anything. It’s not just anyone.
It is disgraceful in all the bathrooms.
The whole need for poetry in the first place was to find a way to describe it.
Its purpose was to be the poetry and therefore the meaning and therefore the life but it is not.
So you had to have more and more and more of it.
You kept on going with it while the fathers threw up their hands like dandelions to desert it.
You see the fathers in the faces of it.
Fathers like thistles and shrubs. Fathers like knapweed.
Fathers like crabgrass with their thumbs in their teensy mouths of fae.
The problem with a rigmarole is when to stop it.
I choose this way.
