OB/GYN

It’s racist to do sand divination, iron out time in an amygdaloid

Even if they’re all in your head. “My job is not to talk,”

Says a skeleton to some followers in the dust.

His eyes and brain still work without muscles and tendons.

There are different brands of beating up, a benevolent corporation,

A medicine made of bruised-over essence, don’t judge the pain

Of tumbling through a plate glass window into a Dutch garden

With indicative note cards replenished every week on the dot.

“When Father say ‘study,’ and I no listen,

I then understand with fists quickly.”

He put off buying an umbrella until the Revelation,

The cartoon dragons at the back of the Bible.

He preferred the rain all the time harrowing down

His polygon face without any lard (unlike most of us).

The wide-eyed throbbing puts us to sleep

For a turnaround at the 4:00 a.m. shift of ecstatics,

The wooden snakes that proved to be venomous,

A surprised pair of white Dickies jumping to life

With all the loss of a train conductor nodding off

On the dials and cranks: brass speculums showing a future.