Suburban Gods (2023)

There you go again,

blasting Arcade Fire's The Suburbs

on headphones that betray

all privacy!

Your nose deep

on the opposite side of

a Pop Socket,

you wonder, listless, when

life might serve to entertain…

The carrots and ranch

you roll over your tongue 

are zesty Midwest ambrosia,

your egg-crate mattress topper

A cumulous throne.

You’re itching for a goddess

or some sort of earthly nymph, but

all who call upon you are those 

with zest for: board game, "pupper,"

40oz water bottle, beating you

at Mario Kart, sarcasm,

essential oil hand sanitizer in 

200K-mile sedan console,

2.5 child DINK 401k.

Are these not your ilk??

if they are not,

then you will die a damned hermit.

Hypocrite! You sigh

and stare listlessly into

your reflection on the wall:

Who am I not, then?

With that, you shape-shift

into a heavy-beaked swan

—solicitor of nymphs—

and flap out the window,

presumably to fondle the sun's sexy curve,

carrots bouncing on the dull shag.