for I just so prefer to discuss
myself. sometimes,
when patient Twelve gets whiney,
I jab her with
my pen – once –
twice –
“why are you doing this?”

I’d like just one—the upper left, why not,
indented there like the first
cookie cut into the sheet of dough—
to show off in becomingly posed photos.

Why do birds suddenly appear
every time you are near?
It must be the mealworms
that live in your ear.

Who needs two eyes
when the show is dull
and the right people go?

It’s so America,
so nineteen fifties,
so Main Street nostalgic, so
Karl-Marx’s-brain-would-explode-by-the-time-he-hit-the-churro-cart capitalistic.