Some pronounce it poim.
Like it has an oy inside it.
The way an oyster
has an oy inside it. The way
all poems ought to have
a little oy vey
and a little oyez! oyez!
inside them.

While waiting
for the world
to end,
I anxiously
tidied the house.

My dog wakes herself with a fart,
eyes filled with accusation
that I had played a nasty trick,
her glare cold, convinced.

I think last night I caught a glimpse into your soul
in the same, unlucky way strangers catch a glimpse
of you through the gaps in the doors of public
restrooms in America.

How did I win this privilege
you all bent on my chest?
As windows watch us breathless,
your text might know the rest.