COMPOUND (INTERLUDE)

Lay it to rest like your mother before Postwar brownstones piling at the shoreline Compound words piling At the fringe of your vernacular Heavyfooted ovenheaded postmodern woman Hollowhoused sallowcheeked Words lapping over over over In the winter you ran yourself like an errand Ran yourself like a train under Some edge-of-town bridge Wrote yourself a grocery list On the back of last week's receipt Thin paper ouroboros turning in your pursepocket You baptized your children So they could bury themselves beside your mother Under some edge-of-town bridge Besides the terrible grayed fish And the fisherman you envied For his suncrisped neck Your mother Whose last plea was for certain times You're sure that's what she said But then it all piles up Receiptpaper words the taxman never reads In boxes the landlord pitches into the river behind you This place is a pileup, that's what the fisherman said My mother always said This place is a compound