A Room of Its Own

Sun butts into the great

American breakfast area—

malted vanilla waffle

maker, actual bananas.

Every morning I sell

off the world for parts,

by bedtime find a dented

fender on my threshold

(the blood on my door-

post’s only there to spare

itself). I need a clean

room, glinting forceps

to remove (is that flag

still up there ruining

the moon?). A big idea

is just waiting for me

to occur to—I keep it

in the safe behind this

frame whose impetus

is all it depicts.