Unlike Anne Sexton’s action figures
Our roaches are tiny ,golden brown

But they scuttle all over the kitchen
Just like hers and those of a Randall.

It would take a woman to terminate
The crawling, where our hunger lay.

She brings an innocent cherub child
To insert poison in home’s crevices.

(Taking off on Anne Sexton’s poem Cockroach and a similar one by Randall Mann)


Death of a split man

All our life we thought we were some body else
Not a history’s man, a doctor of letters from far .

We dissembled a child who cried out laughing
Fancying ourselves as a keeper of state secrets.

We therefore had to keep up several pretenses.
It was tiring to pretend you were someone else.

Now we know we are someone else in the dark
Back in the green room for donning a new role

Where we no more need to dissemble or fidget
Wearing rusted masks that do not fit our faces.

Comic relief

Deceptive about some rainy days.
We keep our happiness for them.

Dice is cast all our time with eyes
Blind to probabilities and method.

An occasional episode is a crumb
For comic relief , as we scramble.

(Taking off on Thomas Hardy’s poem “Hap” and his famous quote from a novel “happiness is an occasional episode in the general drama of pain”)