Mindful of gas leaks
I try a staring contest
with my own stovetop.
The yuppies at night
try out bass-lead jazz pieces--
I think you’d be proud.
Not to say I think
anything particular
about your status
as yuppie or no.
Not to say I’d think something
of you either way.
Not to say I think
you’re anything special for
having an interest
in weird kinds of jazz.
You just wobble rhythmically
to any jiggles
that the warm night air
produces! I think you’re sick
for not caring much
about my gas leak,
how I’m stuck at home alone,
staring down goblins
summoned by the clouds
of methane wandering loose
and psychedelic.