I have a feeling this one needs some work. Comments?
Since you’ve been away, the machinery
and recipes have broken down. Your pick-up
got down on all fours and dug under the porch.
It lies there now, panting and whining,
rubbing its tail pipe against our cornerstone
and farting gasoline.
The eggs, too, misbehave,
throwing themselves at the back of my
head. The pudding mix clings to the
chandelier, the coffee drips into my
purse every chance it gets, oh inmate,
without you, electricity reverses itself
and the rooms darken every time
I thumb the switch.
But perhaps it’s my singing,
(a long wail, the neighbors say)
a perfect C, high and arching, while I
arm wrestle the vacuum cleaner,
water the can opener, throw
fistfuls of sugar at the willfully
jammed bathroom door.
Perhaps it is me, inmate, who has
turned inside out, crouched
in my silk dress in the tub,
burying the knives and forks
in the garden, singing until
all the windows crack into spider webs,
collapse, break out like a dam bursting,
like a prisoner stepping just past
Sincerely awaiting yr. happy return,