House ArrestThe skeletons in my closet weep every morning.
One is a woman. One is her child.
One is a Doctor. When I can,
I give them the scraps I find
of the happenings of their loved ones.
They have long since wasted away.
I don't have the heart to tell them.
You've driven across a desert road at night,
seen the truckers running stop signs
because nobody's watching? Sometimes
they hit a coyote or maybe a bus
full of singing christians--
my mind has been that way.
My bedside is littered with cans and porngraphy.
Mother cleans it up every Saturday,
turns up the dosage on my IV. Rotates my oxygen tanks.
My wife has picked up yet another shift.
She leaves before dawn.
She'll be home with more cigarettes and a salad
and maybe a sponge with some gall.
She's been moving her things to a motel around the corner
when she thinks I'm asleep. I don't sleep.
I don't have the heart to tell her.
Maybe tomorrow morning I'll take a walk. See an old friend
about floor seats at the Knicks.
Disappear behind some old warehouse
before the police radios can warm up
and leave myself in a heap
in front of some Chinese sweatshop.
