Wednesday, December 6, 2017

COME ON-A MY HOUSE (AFTER ROSEMARY CLOONEY)

Ten forty five, ten
forty seven, ten fifty—
the blond singer

sleeps fitfully.
Part-victim
part-perpetrator—

she feels
run-over
but guilty.

People say:
she doesn't actually
have a job, which must be

why she's pretty
sure she's
never been on vacation, either.

Waking up wishing
you were as dull
and dry as everyone else

must be the worst
feeling.
When you're this

talented and pretty,
the world is so
slick, round, and shiny

that you can't
get a grip.
nothing is discrete, no knob

ever clicks.
This must why,
it's a relief when

once in a while,
ordinary questions
yield ordinary answers.

What time is it right now?
Ten fifty five.
I mean—

Ten after eleven.
Close enough
for jazz.

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