I hang up my good clothes, redeploy my books.
I Windex ants in the stickiness,
brandish a broom halfheartedly
at two pigeons cozying above the breezeway.

For the fruit flies I make no excuses.
Red-goggled copulating
opportunists crotch-sniffing beer bottles
and kiwi rinds, any stinking thing.

Then the hours come rabbling in
with their cigarette burns and their cups outstretched.
I do what I can. I please the first with cream,
but these five smirk at anything but gin.

Call me the bedwrecker, the ruthless
rainwatcher. Call me fat-lipped joy.
I put my lover on a plane this morning
Separate. Still practicing.