Bonnie Jean Michalski
I’m looking for a synchronized-swim routine that flags to moonlight little bursts of air.
Secretly, I’m looking for storage methods to reduce clutter.
Concerned as I am about obscurity laid waste. My next organizing project:
I’d like to include cat food tins, but shelf space is a rare commodity. These days.
I know it’s all the rage to try to redefine art using the gross anatomy slump,
which reduces the blue in everything. No place to look without
there’s a competing color scheme. And shelving should always be neutral.
Because of all the unpredictable stuff a shelf must hold. Because it is its job: the noble,
ever-streamlined job of the shelf. Next time say you have more pets
than you have pet-flexible lifestyle space. I’ll tell you
you aren’t the only one rezoning. You are, however, the only one
drinking sangria and thinking hard about which fruits are local. I credit you that.
Credit for everything that was not intended as largesse. It goes on and on the sound
of remodeling. It goes on and on the sound that is the economy refurbishing itself
as a barrio. Sangria is one part wine to one part fruit juice. Is hard to find. Is baggies.
A Bulwark Against
This cumulative match-and-trace become brand
new, fold-fold fate toy and bent over flexural
until the last one was resembling a true totem
grimly passing with a too-tonal battery of
the bright ones in the splash for enough a time
slips out the back gate and is never heard. By and by
her wake-and-braid is unmade by lunchtime
and is only one-half your fault you’re doubting
the reference, even, between this and sister’s juju
worn as an anklet, savvy; worn around the neck, none.
You’ll have it off by sundown, and the clouds to mark us
just one step outside the compound as downfelled.