Ribbon of Deranged Alphabet
There are seven hundred pages in the Manuel
Hidden like the pink buds of the Crabapple
Permanently rooted out back
So groggy in spring that Barbara at the PO
Wants to hide in her pajamas
At two PM
The need for a cozy life
A life of being
In utero forever
Without an overseer to forbid sleep.
You said I will love it…the office
The robotic futility of it
It’s always right there in the upper left
Hand corner of nowhere
But you will be too late for curiosity
You were listening again
Excerpts of Chopin on an antique computer
And being pregnant is a harsh sentence
Without reprieve still you look like you’re
Just getting started
Where the day bends
You predict it will be the end of
Being normal.
These lovely children all lain in a row
Someone has closed their eyes
But what if we can’t get back
Can’t cope with all the data
In the time machine
Will it be any different from the present?
Joan Payne Kincaid writes: “I live with Rod, a Rescue cat named Cordelia, and Fox Terrier named Fancy. I write and paint in Sea Cliff, Long Island. My work is published Internationally My latest book: Being Here: New and Selected Poems 1988-2012 is now available.”