First the weatherman
lied---sky a rough curtain
of cloud. Stiletto wind,
pebbly rain, a day of red
hands and tears,

then two handfuls
of mail---offers
and bills. Stamped
letter from an old friend:
"Howya doin'?  I'm doin' fine. How's
your coverage?"

The refrigerator leaks into the fruit drawer, brown
puddles and a scent of apple wine.

Each day the foundation's scar
rips another inch, the Chevy coughs
and can't catch its breath, mushrooms
blossom in the laundry. Early

this morning the scurry
of clawed feet in the crawl space.

Peel a banana, find a worm,
broken glass
in the bathroom,
trash in the yard. My life

is a hangnail, you

Happy Face

round as the bottom of a highball glass
beady-eyed bastard! Don't
smile at me, you
jaundiced icon
or wish me
a nice
goddam
day

til you can spin
your face
around

and name
your own
disease.