Raccoons in the Universe

Relaxing, I put on my fuzzy slippers
To explore the universe. There’s a comet,
Its swerving path about to make me vomit.
Now, looking at the Big and Little Dippers,
I think: raccoons in one of those wood chippers,
Shaking the world — then my Dad will bomb it,
Claiming, “Because it’s missing a grommet
It’ll cause untold damage. Go grab the strippers!”

Then, warning me about those waning moons
That interrupt the paths of falling stars,
Attaching field glasses to my handlebars,
He talks more trash about those fool raccoons
Until my mother yells at him, and swoons.
She freed the fireflies I had caught in jars.

A Current Ballad

Once I’d invented three new kinds of wire
I twined them all around my kitchen table
To learn which ones would serve like 8-gauge cable
But take up less space, like a miniature lyre
That plays the same notes. Then I could retire,
Unless retirement turns out just a fable.
So anyhow, the damn flow wasn’t stable,
And the workman wasn’t worthy of his hire.

I gave that up, remembering the hour:
The calculations simply were not valid,
And I was meant to be fixing a salad,
So I pulled out the fuse, turned off the power,
And emptied out the fridge, still feeling sour,
Until I thought: well, I could write a ballad.

Summer’s End, 1968

Off Pembina Highway, in a motel room,
My mother cries, but won’t explain her reasons.
Is Winnipeg an unexpected tomb,
Located at the back end of warm seasons,
Or is it something else, in her own body?
She’s forty-two, and this is no vacation:
It’s a motel, cheap, dank, a little shoddy,
And maybe that’s the only explanation.
We’ve come here because last spring she wept
When Dr. King was shot, and she insisted,
And our arrival is a promise kept.
Indeed, who could have argued, or resisted?
She’ll make the most of this, as decades pass,
And she will demonstrate iron and class.

All over You

What’s the incentive for a man to lie —
About his hair colour, his height and weight,
His eyes — when you can see him? No debate
Is likely to persuade you that he’s shy
When he’s all over you. His skin is dry
Like snakeskin. Claiming he’s in a bad state,
His fingers slip under your skirt, and skate
Toward you, skittering along your thigh.

Your mother told you men want just one thing —
They’ll lie about that all day long, of course,
Protesting too much till they’re good and hoarse
And in the dark about their own lying.
So if he promises that he can sing,
Make him. Take no excuses. And use force.