TURNING DOWN THE ARS POETICA, HEATING UP THE LEFTOVERS
Jim Daniels

The heart abused by the staged endings
of professional wrestling and greeting cards.

The line pumping blood replaced
by fashionable stray threads leading to

the complete fraying of, spraying of, the blind horse's
nod and wink. In other words, lost in the snowy forest

among the skeleton trees, irony serves little purpose.
I just won an award for obscure clarity—stop the presses

and replace them with long underwear drying on the line,
almost sideways in March wind.

*

Somewhere, a man arrives home from work
in evening darkness, car door etching itself

on the street's silence, Inside, leftovers on the stove,
a woman in her robe prepares his plate.

Children asleep, radio tuned to talk
on health and home improvements and religion

though it's just soft static now as she sits down
to watch him eat, as he sits down to hear

what he missed, being at work and all.
I can't tell you whether they even hug or kiss

before collapsing into bed together,
for I am already in dream's tender arms.

And if this violates point of view
or logic, she'll get you a plate

and explain it all to you,
my mother.

©