I make my husband shake-up bottles of beer on me.
This teaches me respect. So I begin
the first ten poems of my memoir.
I cannot wait for the great wayward wave.

Anyway, it's time to fix dinner:
re-fried beans, half a banana pepper,
a jar of baby food. Last night, Charles Bukowski
and I shared a bottle of Jack Daniel's
at the Colorado Steak House. Charles confessed
that my ass is statuesque, but I
couldn't tell whether we were talking
or if he was reciting a poem. So
I told him off. "Madonna is queen!"
He looked like a farmer and spoke only Latin.
My mouth itches to whisper it.

The lawn mower factory called today:
"What's wrong? Why are you late?"
But it's not 11:00 PM.
You can't count on closets or electric clocks.
I was only covering my skin. Once at the ball,
I danced delicately in designer shoes.
Around the house, book bags, ugly, shag carpet.

Anyway, it's time to fix dinner:
angel hair, frozen chicken,
a jar of Hermann's Pickles. A month ago, Marilyn Chin
and I shared a bottle of Sake
at Kilroys on Kirkwood. Marilyn said,
"It's not manna from heaven. But yes,
you should be an activist poet. Imagine
yourself pitted against the dominant
culture in which we live."
But I couldn’t tell whether we were chatting
or if she was reciting a poem. So
I told her off. "Anne Carson is queen!"
She looked Chinese and spoke only English.
My hands ache to spell it out.

I make my husband push me into sharp cornered walls.
This teaches me obedience. So I begin
the next ten poems of my memoir.
I cannot wait for the great wayward wave.

The baby food factory called today:
"Where is our sifted flour? We cannot make thickener!"
But I don't really work there. I was only filling in.
This is the twenty-first century. Hire an alien.
Around the house, ink pens, computer cables.

Anyway, it's time to fix dinner:
ground turkey, paint thinner,
a dash of arsenic. A year ago, Emily Dickinson
and I shared a bottle of Arizona Tea
at the Wild Goat on Main Street. Emily said,
"We never know how high we are
till we are called to rise."
But I couldn't tell whether we were gossiping
or if she was reciting a poem. So
I told her off. "Katharine Kerr is queen!"
She looked innocent and spoke only riddles.
I crave to eat the whole thing.

The clothing factory called today:
"Why don't you buy new clothes? We're hip this season."
Who whistles anymore anyway? I only shop
at Sears. Besides, I hate dressing old.
I still wear Barbie panties.
Around the house, ferns, an exercise bike.

I make my husband turn out the light while I'm showering.
This teaches me patience. So I finish
the final poem of my memoir.

I cannot wait for the great wayward wave.