Short Rheumatic Poems

Yes, of course I am the king and lord of this house.
Sure, you could talk to the Mrs. if she was here,
You're back? Probably better not to wake my spouse,
Sleeping sound, a wonderful woman, a real dear.
Her not being here for days is truly not queer.
Tomorrow is probably not convenient either.
She’s come down with the mumps and rheumatic fever....

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I opened a workshop of living
it takes care of the city's sorrows,
makes you tear up traffic tickets, 
miss appointments,
climb a tree and curse authority.
Just yesterday an old lady came.
She suffers from not knowing 
how to be a girl anymore.
She's there, 
smiling and sitting on the floor,
she has a cane in her lap 
and in her rheumatic hands 
a beautiful rag doll....

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The pained pendulum pushes through the fog
With the ever-crashing splash of rheumatic guilt
Licking at the swinging bronze from below.
We lose God again and again
In the cluttering of thoughts
Like the burnt wings of butterflies
Over-used, over-driven, and
Over-flapped and now here
Festooned to a wheelchair he sits 
Staved and dying from stale love.
And needing my help....

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