The transmigration of souls in the donut shop
The baker is making a mobius strip of lemon cream. It darts through the crowd.
The ballooning heart of the construction worker is being sawed in two
by the manager. I have to say something now about the woman waiting
impatiently by the cash register. The houseflies lining the corona of her hair
are trained by her. She locks them in the bathroom at night.
The construction worker drops; like that, a soul gets batted from its chair
and joins the high-flung ceiling, waiting.
I was snatching notes from the piano to play the blues. I had a handful of minor keys.
Which one will start the car? I dread getting back in my car, except for Ann Nelson.
She says I should have that second donut. She is an idealogue of my best interests
My parents, their stiff outlines smudged in the back seat along with the other dead,
have less to say. That was never a problem when they were alive, perhaps
they shouted themselves hoarse. Does living always define excess?
The little boy in the back is mostly mute. I think of fidgeting with his car seat,
not that it could matter. He wonders where I am going.
I’m sure it’s the same places. So many of the monuments
in Hope Cemetery give me pleasure, but the best is of Dick and
Chickie dancing on a tiled floor into the infinite distance. Or the angel pressing her head
into her hands as I often do.