On the Bed, On Vacation

Sometimes I would rather not begin

by stating the situation in which I sit,

neck bent. Nightly, instead,

I will go to the pool hall

and play half-silently, admiring

broken fans that,

perhaps, cooled a great number of players,

cues in hand, important, blue chalk dusting off their shoulders

like drifting children; they tumble down

covertly, ethereal near the construction site

Oh construction site, in the town in which I was born,

you light up the as if you

were hosting a Hawaiian barbecue,

or perhaps celebrating Channukah,

though that is slightly troubling

as your candles are innumerable and scald

a fantastic after-glow

on the dashboard, dirt piles

and football stadium, drifting children. So, then,

the problem: light, being.

Beams beg for walking upon and

you are months from completion--

no night-watcher will touch

a foot on you, blue-black whale whose mouth glazes

open like candle wax,

except in the future when

children roll their fingers on your cavernous walls.