in this life. I must put back
more life in my years. Living
in strife. My rage is sheer as my silk

stockings. Shuffling through the day
like an actor in a play. The only thing
dropping by are the pigeons firing

bombs. Banging my head like a tom-tom,
waiting for something to hatch. But the only thing
I catch is a cold. I roll through

this afternoon as a ball of green and blue
yarn the cat's unraveled. A tangled string
that hasn't traveled past her backyard.
A joker in a deck of cards.