Her bullwhip whirls in the kitchen's air
as a cow looks with disapproval
at the leather-clad milkman and madness
just inside the door.
Mom's yellow head dims the sunrise
on days like this. With my report card in hand
she ransacks mementos sent by dad
for a pen to initial my failing grades.
Joe, the plumber pulls into the driveway,
readies his snake and plunger,
but they'll remain unsoiled.
Our neighbor'll never finish mowing his lawn.
A cat shrieks. Robins splatter
against potted plants. A sewing machine
bursts, sends needles flying through the house
as the Cessna's fuel explodes, turns my sisters
into single-parent children. I get shipped
to Michigan to live in a house that reeks
of the elderly and a piano in decomposition
beneath a mural of burning trees.
