Complaint

 

They say it's your Birthday 65 x 50 cm acrylic, oil pastel and charcoal on paper

COMPLAINT (1)

When you’re away you have to stay

clear of those statues whose fig leaves

have been chipped away by curious school girls.

And I have to cut down on cheese burgers

and grilled cheese sandwiches because of

cholesterol and salt and other poisons. It’s about

time for our Annual Relationship Audit, a Situation Report

from the Situation Room where things can get rather weird.

At the moment it’s quiet. The cats are cleaning themselves.

You’re on the couch, plugged into WhatsApp, while I’m

spreading like a puff of smoke over a back yard fence.

A neighbor’s got ribs on the grill. We seem to be

in California but it smells like Louisiana

in steam-bathed, barbecued August; a delicious

lethargic deep south vibe I don’t know all that well

though I’m jiggling my legs—spastic movements

that raise a few eyebrows— to its back country harmonies.

Sometimes I’m someone looking for a Big Idea, a ready-made

sustainable system cruising along the skyline  

like any charlatan absolute. I even read books. In the end, all

solutions are temporary. Still, until you’re home unscathed

everything will feel hopelessly permanent, and I’ll be

someone not merely solitary but vaguely menacing too.

When people spot me they’ll grab shovels or gardening shears.