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.