Thought Police


Crosswalks. My cell phone.
My husband’s voice like Big Brother, receding.

This watch –watching, witching, winking.
My lover’s Rhumba, bringer of tripping hazards.

Thermostats. Autumn, falling into place.
Time – simultaneously a treadmill

and a rubber band. I think a lot about friends
in other cities. I think about Chardonnay.

I think about stationary bikes
and what new contortions I could do with dumbbells.

The new black flanks of the mountains.
My lingerie that still smells like smoke

after six washes. My hotel bed
and what comes next.

My mom, who died months ago
polices my thoughts benignly

but inextricably. The sky, unattainable.
The three Donkeymen of the Apocalypse.

This spatula, ready for splintering.
These traffic pylons.