Who is lit up by a chunk of the mundane—
Shinkichi Takahashi eternally burning seeing the baby’s
Turd afloat in the communal bath—
I’m walking past the greyhounds’ owners’ house
When a tinkling chord from their portico
Boards me. I am the most stupid
For one finger snap, asking why is dad on me
In a rash, in me as sea-sickness? Dad was.
Four lengths of aluminum conduit,
Six-pound test monofilament fishing line,
A little plastic leaf-shaped clapper, arrhythmic heart.
Now he is implicated by breezes,
An intermittent afterlife by association
With wind, tubes, filament, a son
Until all is all and then he’s yours.