Yesterday, whine and ebb of happy birthday
beyond the bridal bush. Billiards rack of black-clad
post-grads picked over the pillowy stash
I hid near Vonnegut’s house. Battered vole,
battered for hours by the tortie with tags. Don’t touch
the doorknob, the clutch of dresses. This month is to nuzzle
or let fly: handfast the loosening green. I’m ready or not
under the phlox rug. Over the blue-black beyond.
*composed by playing Poetry Mad Libs with Molly Brodak’s poem “Going Back to Sleep” from A Little Middle of the Night