Luckiest Girl in World Walks to Car
Not a cloud in the iris, nary
a boil. Her bed at night in a room far away.
Kept from the rats and the strings of petroleum,
tucked on an upper floor.
Holding a lover’s arm, plump and haphazard,
wrapped like a sack of flour. A fridge
to keep food from rotting on blacktop;
a phone to call on for help;
a person to answer, to answer and give ?
This is the bliss, the bliss.
These are the numbers that hold up,
the weight of the ring-toss, the value of choice.
Why the word “rich” spoken aloud in this country
barely embarrasses, touches the nape.
Why your fur coat makes my arm hairs stand up to the tone of a low ochre whine.
Why all the newscasters always sound childish
Kay, are you there
yet,
are you, yet — are you there?