Not one of them pulls the rug out,
spills the candle,
hits reality in the foot with warm sudden wax.
Don't clean around me. Be with me dirty,
put the key in the ignition,
ignite. (high time we burned...)

Sister to crows and car alarms,
those shards of magazine and bobbypin are
not your calling. That green rectangle has
no claim to you, or to me.
You know it's time.

You know it's time now -- you've got your boots on --
but I would walk this path barefoot or in
mismatched plastic sandals. You are a Ming
vase wrapped in shavings, packed in shredded headlines.
Get out of there.