Today I am living my poetry,
just as Val—living with Ruth—lives her fiction,
just as the fire burns in a wash tub

on the back porch.  Never mind the house
is a hundred years old, the little burner over ninety.
Going to Pittsburgh is a dangerous move,

even without that cashier in Restaurant Depot
who wrapped her head in tin foil, saying,
“No aliens gonna’ get my brainwaves today.”

And I bet they didn’t.  I’m home living my poetry,
while Val’s telling the truth, in that photos
are forthcoming but not of the fire.  Damn Republicans,

little is left of your message. I can barely discern ican
from the rest of your rubbish.  Better not mess with
the little engineer.  She might sew you to her Aida cloth.

first published in Left Facing Bird