It’s showtime, seagull
This time, you’ll need to do a lot more
than shriek me awake at four,
a remote warning
to board up windows,
burn black candles, drink a pink Manhattan
before boarding a train the hell out.
After all these years, I know how
to slow down time before a hurricane, a fire.
First, rip off the minute hand,
then the second, then each number
on the clock’s wan face.
Don’t freeze there on the windowsill, gull.
Will you rescue me this time, hold me
aloft on your shoulder?
Or drop me spinning
like a ballerina
in the center of the sidewalk?
Don’t answer. Just lower a wing.
Wink a roguish red eye.
Sleeping with a window open
I wouldn’t mind disappearing
at midnight, reappearing
at dawn, as maple
trees do, like the
remote control,
like my phone.
Be a good way to practice
safely in the
shadows
before my
‘before' has been torn
out of my book,
pages thrown out,
window freezes shut.
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