When I Say Clean Your Room
I hear the sneeze, see
the swirl of pillows,
sheets, waded tissues,
lint, dust, cat dander
clumped under the bed.
I smell incense, smoke
blown out the window,
black ash gathering
on the sill. I see clothes
she won’t ever wear
or hang up, yet can’t bear
to pass on. A cactus
and succulents plead
from parched pots
when I stand at her door,
my eyes darting from mess
to mess, which drives her mad.
Ordering clutter’s my drug;
I can’t think one clear thought
if my study’s a wreck.
When airplanes used to split
her ears, and she wailed
I’d uncover a breast
and soothe her to sleep,
but now all I can do
is say clean your room.
* * * * *
When I Say Okay Take My Car
I mean I’ll take the bus,
fueled by compressed
natural gas, low emissions,
but fracked with diesel
engines and toxic chemicals
hauled in big trucks. I know
she’ll come home happy
with a glowing fuel light,
fenders crusted with
the grey dust that billows
off narrow, dirt roads
on these ridges. O,
at her age, I drove
highways at ninety
in a Plymouth Fury
that got fifteen miles
to the gallon, gay ‘80s,
when Ronald Reagan
tore the solar panels
off the White House roof
like some teenage brain
unable to see
past immediate thrills
to whatever disaster
is bound to come next.
I mean until I hear
my Subaru grind up
the drive, I won’t sleep.
* * * * *
When I Say It’s Your Life
I guess I’ll probably miss
scalding her thermos
while I brew our coffee
and scoop the cat litter.
School serves a hot lunch
but I just want to do
something. It’s too late to say
Get more sleep! Exercise!
Eat something green!
Not long ago it all
fell to me, holding her
on my lap at Public Health
when our cheap insurance
wouldn’t cover vaccines.
A doctor, suspecting
neglect, turned to her:
How many people
sleep in your house,
how many pets?
I know she belongs
to herself and a future
I won’t live to see.
I mean, You’re enough,
don’t give up or get stuck,
but I hold my tongue
and warm up the soup.