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The machine beeps.
There is more than one in the room,
And it's very cool in here now.
I am having don't-know-what-to-do feelings
Not wanting to believe that I'm hurt
And neither landlocked nor at sea
Is much of a metaphor, love though I do
The word maritime.
Someone is sleeping in the other room.
Someone else is walking two-hundred blocks
Away from me. Some doors make the sound
Of cannonfire in the hall and mentally
I am in Lee's Art Shop, pricing inks.
Mad Magazine's fold-ins were my Oulipo.
Tired doesn't describe me exactly,
Nor do adverbial phrases come to my succor.