Muscle

Obsessions, I'd rather read about them-

I had anticipated hiring a detective

But realized I was better off without so many possessions-

Though I may miss the pieces of glass I found

In the ocean, and, of course, those Japanese fishing floats-

Yet I remain curious who he's seeing, that fat bitch

With a nose job, that college slut with long rubbery nipples,

Or do I stay inside, pull the duvet to my chin

In that timeless fashion, coax a little sympathy

Out of the cat-to go through such anguish

When it seems so obvious now, like a math problem,

After being stymied for weeks, watching the sun come

And go, squirrels digging holes-going from A to B

After clearing out the brush, trying to find something

To tie the narrative flow, an aside that masquerades

As passion, the growth in a private garden-

Or was it, as you suggest, a more materialistic fetish,

Something to do with ownership? I can't quite fathom

How others do it. You, as an example. How people say

It's so pleasing to hear an original voice. But nothing

Stays original very long. That Oldsmobile on blocks

The color of our stained river. I don't want original,

I don't want pudding-stone, I want marble. I want clarity.

I don't want dead carp, I want speckled trout leaping

Over the rapids like flying fish-

Now that I consider it, I want more than a pound of flesh,

I want his goddam head on a skewer...