I am so glad that Larry Rivers made a
statue of me

I belong here. I was born
here. The palms sift their fingers
and the men shove by in shirts,

The fluorescent tubing burns like a bobby-soxer’s ankles
the white paint the green leaves in an old champagne bottle
and the formica shelves going up in the office

When your left arm twitches
it’s like sunlight on sugar
to me and my tongue seeks

I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab
which is typical
and not just of modern life

Dante
I could guide you into depravity but I’m not sure I could
lead either of us back out.

You walk into a theatre in the semi-dark
a tiny stage holding up a candle
a few actors are pacing from shadow to shadow

Oh Barbara! do you think
they’ll ever name anything after us like
rue Henri-Barbusse or

And then the drug takes hold
And goes down into your arms and your fingers.
Wipes the pain along in front of it, washes

see my daughter’s curved hocks and
haunches, her hips that behind my back have
swelled until they taper delicious