How can you who are not or do not
feel complete without her or them
or us decide what to throw out
and what to keep?
Who can say when it’s time to say
goodbye or who to say hello to
or how loudly, or how hard to wave?
Where do you choose to live in a world
that’s running out of places to park
or even drive, park benches, a space
to place your fork on a table full
of broken plates, knocked-over glasses,
when you can’t even find a chair?
What will you do when you’ve been warned
every day since birth that you don’t have
much time but must divide
your mind into a million choices,
forever haunted by what you’ve missed?
Whose voice should you listen to?
Who knows how to describe the truth,
that elusive loop that calls for a sleuth?
Not me, baby! I’m delighted to dwell
in a delicatessen of delusions. It’s
a treat just to stuff my face while
strange loved ones starve as I’m
too cheap to flip ’em a quarter
to buy a piece of gum for lunch.
But don’t worry too much, please:
biology will get its revenge. The walls
of my heart are spray-painted
with self-imposed cholesterol,
and when it stops I’ll take a bow
and crumple to the floor
like Scrooge before he was transformed
into a mensch. At least then
maybe my poor hungry neighbors
might have a chance to eat
something besides refusal
or chump change for a change.
Bury me in a dumpster.
Sing “We Gotta Get Out of This Place”
and “Home on the Range.”