I’m waiting still for that message, the howl-
ing red one from Paris, sans attachment.
I get so much junk, I can’t but scowl
while clicking crap away. Take this apartment,
delete all traces of me, and what’s left?
The place could have satellite TV,
not just cable. No disposal here, I laughed
after trimming the calf into the sink.
Before I slurped it out, I paused for a drink.
And you were, where were you this hour o’ need?
On foot / by car / by bus / by train / online?
By where / what plane? Before / by whose design?
To flout us is to flout yourself, that past.
(At least there’s air.) To write, to embrace that past.