Love Calls Us

The soul descends once more in bitter love…
                                                                          —Richard Wilbur
 

The eyes
open to the cries
of police.
 
Skirting sleep,
the soul
industrial
 
as laundry—
realities
like bad checks,
 
burning
like new sex.
Dinner
 
is the better half
of someone’s
lunch. Someone’s
 
playing
a guessing
game:
 
Psychosis
or Handsfree.
Local fame.
 
Praying
to a calf,
or debt ceiling,
 
keeps
us grounded.                                                                                      
You can take
 
the kid
out the food court,
but child support

won’t upgrade
from buy
to buy—
 
outbid,
I am my
financial aide.
 
Astounded,
we wake
and take.
 
Let every boy
Tolstoy
with disease
 
have a chance.
Liabilities,
let’s dance.
 
We’re clean—
or rather, not
unclean—
 
doxycycline
our balance
sheet.
 
Our spirits, neat.
 

Randall Mann, “Love Calls Us.” Copyright © 2018 by Randall Mann. Used by permission of the author for PoetryNow.
Source: PoetryNow (2018)
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