Other Than That, Missus Lincoln

I got to sleep          
finally at 5 a.m.          
forgot to turn off the phone          
and case manager called at 9:55          
about my protein order          
which is months late bc          
I or somebody forgot to--          
         
no, they had left a msg          
on my whatchacallit          
voice mail          
and I never answer          
unknown numbers or voice mail          
bc they always want money          
         
and I am already tapped out,          
giving to Katie Porter--who lost--          
feeding the world's kids (and          
guilty about Gaza and yes I can          
probably come up with another five          
a month even though I fell into          
the soup-kitchen line decades ago          
         
and I still can't turn off my head,          
hearing things          
that probably aren't there          
but you never know, right?          
The three raps on the door          
sound real          
but the last half-dozen times          
I've gotten up          
to see if the pitchfork and torches          
crowd is out there          
demanding to know why I didn't          
vote for Trump          
or buy one of his bibles          
or gold tennis shoes          
or trading cards          
or piece of the suit          
in which he was arrested          
or a t-shirt with his mug shot          
         
Nothing, no one was there          
but you gotta look          
otherwise you lie there          
wondering which is even worse          
and when you finally get up to check          
and of course blah blah          
         
and that's just the half of it          
the quarter, the nano,          
the Planck's Constant          
of the hierarchy of squat.          
         
I tried to get back to sleep          
but it was like the struggle          
to write a really good and indecent poem          
         
lying there on the cusp          
where you're just kinda floating          
and you know you're about to go under          
the ether          
about to fall into the gone boy gone          
oubliette called sleep          
with Rasputin demanding          
you spin some homespun gold green,          
drop what you're doing          
and put.it.in.the.basket        
demanding you come up with his          
secret name or else        
         
hint: starts with "R"          
and it ain't Rapunzel          
         
but something just kept dragging          
me back to this world of phenomena          
         
so i finally got up          
and called George's pharmacy          
and got the protein thing          
handled          
and couldn't remember my          
caregiver's phone number          
and didn't know how to get to my          
contact list while already talking          
on the fracking phone          
and the woman was very nice          
and patient          
but increasingly nervous          
         
and i was getting frantic          
and she said          
it's okay          
take your time          
no hurry          
and would you like to call back          
later          
         
and i realized i was          
the one call she would roll her eyes at          
during her next coffee break          
and say, you won't belieeeevvvve the call          
i got from this old guy          
80 years old and couldn't          
even remember his emergency contact number--          
         
and the smoke is pouring          
out my ears          
threads stripped          
sabot in the gears          
         
and so i said          
yes, it's okay          
         
and, yes, i will do that          
and i want you to have a wonderful day          
and please don't let an old curmudgeon          
spoil your morning          
         
but didn't mention          
sleep deprivation          
or hallucinations knocking at the door          
or how guilty i feel          
to ask my caregiver to pick up some food          
because she has to spend          
her own money for gas          
and has a lot of things on her plate          
and we used to be lovers          
but aren't anymore          
         
as I am going over Viagra Falls          
in a barrel of busted flat          
about to really, really go to sleep          
         
         
and the ct scan coming up          
where they wanna know why          
I'm hearing things          
and forgetting things          
even though I'm still          
a pretty badass jeopardy player          
         
and don't get me started          
on my so-called poetry          
which is scrabbling me up and down          
walls of the oubliette faster          
than they can be          
hosed down          
         
with the 30-in-30          
coming up on April one          
and my cat April 823          
who disappeared one night last July          
and i still mourn          
still look for          
still yearn for Her          
         
and          
         
the coyotes          
who have to feed their pups, i know,          
the owls who have to feed          
their fledglings, I know,          
         
and comes to mind          
every day again and again          
and i should not should not          
have let her out          
that night          
but she's an outdoor cat          
and how can you hold stop lockup          
incarcerate one          
who so longs for freedom?          
         
forgive me April 823          
I love you come back come back          
little sheba          
and bring back my goddamn heart!          
         
My other cat          
finally gave up her name:          
Miss Behavin' which is perfect          
as it works for when she's a good kitty          
and also when she ain't.          
Ain't Miss Behaving  the cat's meow?  
(She hails from Fats Waller as a near rhyme  
to Hickory Holler)          
         
Missbehavin' is the mirror image          
of my evil twin          
         
my schizoid side          
who sometimes rescues me          
edits my scribblings          
         
and is probably responsible for the rapping          
at the door          
or Poe's raven, he suggests          
         
which brings me back to poetry          
and Frank O'Hara          
and Mark Doty          
Sharon Olds, Marie Howe,          
Lawrence Ferlinghetti          
Billy Collins          
Ted Kooser          
Gerald Stern      
Phillip Levine         
         
all of whom I read either yesterday          
or at least this past week          
         
and I thought of her, my friend          
recovering from surgery          
and her courage          
and the people on the bridge          
immigrants mending potholes on the bridge          
working hard on the bridge          
thinking about whatever it was          
they were thinking about on the bridge          
just before the container ship          
hit the support of the bridge          
and justlikethat          
everything collapsed          
in six lousy seconds          
         
and how my holy mulberry tree          
isn't looking all that great          
all twisted and gnarly          
like me looking in a mirror          
         
and one season left if she's lucky          
to gift me once again with her fruit          
if the creek don't rise          
and the bridge don't fall          
         
if the tree be lucky          
if I be lucky          
if both of us          
be.          
still.          
here.          
         
when the corn comes up once again          
and Emily Dickinson yelling something          
about because death could not wait for her          
i just might be his second choice--thank god I have an appointment          
in Samarra!          
         
and Persephone comes tap dancing          
rapping at the door,          
my wake-up call,          
         
a sprig of lilacs trembling          
in her palsied hand.          
         
Other than that,          
Missus Lincoln,          
how goes your effing day?