Think of that chimp
who tore the lady’s face off,
and his owner called the cops,
and they shot him several times
before he finally calmed down,
dragged himself off to the corner of the kitchen
where he slept, collapsed on his bed, and died.
Sometimes I stare into the mirror and wonder
who would dial nine-one-one
if I tore that mug off?
And if somebody responded and I got mad
and they shot me to shut me up,
how many rounds would it take?
Likely just one, maybe two,
and I’d fall down and they’d drag me off
and I’d never even begin to make it back to bed.
So always decide to leave the deadpan hanging
one more empty day, despite suddenly furious –
especially if it smiles –
the thing fails to look anything like mine.