The Strangers

Published in Body

Mother died today or was it yesterday,
I can't quite remember, is funny unless

it's your mother and she died intestate
in flagrante delicto under me, under

the influence in a state not Nevada,
so cut the gas track and laugh the engine,

we have a paper jet to fold, next arrest
the Mink Fez in Memphis, Tennessee, let's sit

in a pleather booth with the reddest ribs,
the friskiest whiskey, and our universal baby

monitor, punching its buttons and bending
antennae until we hear "Green Onions"

putting some soulful grub to sleep, Let's funk,
you'll say and I'll acquiesce, I'll press

your gloved hand between my paws as we float
toward the ceiling where a bare bulb buds

frayed wires, black threads off a defunct web,
Cowboy, pitch your tent, you'll say, reacting

to my reaction to your foot in my mouth,
your mouth against my zipper, as a podiatrist

you're a brilliant psychiatrist but before
I can spill my head we'll feel the soft cuff

of butterfly nets against our beans as the staff
pulls us down from our hairy aerie so

I can't quite remember is funny unless
Mother died today or was it yesterday?