Lunchtime conversation

Put the timer on for thirty minutes
and let’s talk about something else.
The way the keys sound when you press them

but the strings are cut. Pulling
a clump of grass from the yard.
Don’t pull the grass, Dad will yell.

I jumped off the top of the station wagon
and landed in the present moment.
Astrologically I shouldn’t be here.

I should be in a different house with
a different sign. The old astronomers drew
the finest maps that were incorrect at a time

when people killed for ideas, which is now,
I folded a piece of paper over a comb
to make music and it worked. I froze a thread to

a cube of ice and it worked. I tried out math tricks
and they worked. I shoplifted and my skin worked.
I peeled open an orange and the smell came out. I flipped

over the handlebars, got strips of red roadburn
under my breasts and thought I would turn into a boy
and I did. It was easy. Any shirt would hurt

because of systemic friction. Like a tattoo coming off
over years. Every time your skin hits the surface
of the pool, there is rubbing. There are replacements

for what comes off skin but not for skin
itself, undervalued as the largest organ
despite common knowledge of the fact.

Moving the body is one nice thing about life. It’s alarming
how skin separates you from the organs around you.
When I bake bread, the particles all stay in the pan

or so it looks, and so I believe. I simplified an equation
and it worked for a while. The first thought is not always
best, especially at a time when we are dying for thought.

There are different ways of liking football. You who like football
are extremely smart. Either way, it’s nice to watch bodies move,
watch them work, and work ourselves sometimes too.

I have tried to like all bodies and failed. I favor the shape
of the bruise. Let’s go back to talking work.
Let’s talk the work that keeps the bread inside the pan.
Let’s talk the work that keeps all those particles in their pan.