Friday night on house arrest

To avoid dangers that go bump in the night,

my clumsy friend, Kristine, suggested

we put ourselves on house arrest.

I decided to begin digesting books

instead of devouring them whole.

I resolved to read four poets at a time

digesting a poem from one book

before I moved to the next book

back and forth, back and forth.

In a private room in my brain,

Jane Hirshfield, Billy Collins, Joy Harjo

and Wallace Stevens start arguing.

As usual, Wallace was a bit drunk and

Jane and Joy don’t suffer alcoholic misogynists well.

Billy found it all quite funny and started popping jokes.

The other three got pissed and called Billy an asshole

so I left and picked up a book of prose by David Abram.

I opened it to a dog-eared page and

tried to decide if I was marking progress

or marking a special passage

whose importance I now forget.

Tucked between the next two pages

I found a business card from someone

who knits coats and footsies for pampered dogs

I can’t decide if I was using it as a bookmark

or saving it because dressing up dogs like Barbie dolls

to go out for a poop and come inside to wipe their butts

on the living room carpet your toddler crawls on

makes me laugh or if it accidentally found its way

into the book while stowed away in my backpack.

Frustrated, I reopened the poetry book by Billy Collins

and read, “I enter the white bathroom

trying not to think of Christ or Wallace Stevens.”

Now I am mad at that smart ass, Billy, too.

I take a piss in our white bathroom,

crawl in bed and promise myself

I won’t dream of Christ or Wallace Stevens

and decide to dream of taking myself off house arrest

tempt my fate on Saturday night

call my friend, Kristine and tell her

I’m not listening to her advice, anymore.

3-27-20