Each morning swallows riot
from the throat of Carlsbad Caverns
to fly like address books
low over the desert in pursuit of grace.
All the bad ideas are gathered up
to make a civilization. The corn crop
in my back yard leans over the fence,
tickles my neighbor’s wife
just below the chin.
I’ve apologized several times.
Each morning rats scamper out
from the cemetery,
the voices of children returning.
I’ve apologized several times
to the dwarf who sells me tobacco
to the tobacconist’s lovely daughters
who shoot up on a mattress behind the store.
I apologize. I apologize.
Our great middle class sways on a stool.
My neighbor hides behind it with binoculars
hoping to take his revenge.
I hand him a cup of coffee over the fence.