Confessional

Wednesday might be my favorite day. 
All the bakeries in Berkeley open and 
with a little conviction you can persuade 
the guard you belong on the manicured 
lawn of the tennis club, and maybe even 
join the ladies and their ten-brim visors 
for a sandwich of jambon and Gruyère.
It turns out all the forecasts were dead on— 
I am a dough boy.
Avec sweet tooth and these days 
can't sit still long enough to read or write, 
rub two brain cells together, or call my best friend 
who’s pregnant again after trouble settled in 
and soured in the womb once before. 
This time required surgery, required 
a sewn seal to keep the crown of the head
haloed inside the body. I missed the shower
and the rain of gifts. In the TV show I love, 
puns scare the soon to be successful writer. 
He doesn't very much like himself.
I always found my mother hard to impress, 
but lately my father wants in on the fun. 
He cooed cool, cool after I beaded 
a string of successes into his ear.
It's all quite mad if you stop to think about it—
you could wake up in Rotterdam and not miss dinner. 
Except, planes have been rather unfriendly to me. 
I’ve never believed in hell, but a tin can floating 
above cows, almond groves, and oceans 
is a solid approximation. My mother said 
her wisdom tooth hurt less after she cracked it on a neckbone, 
and aint that some shit. Uncle Sam and his mans
in head office wants you to go numb to the pain 
and take aim at the mirror 
instead of their fidgeting silhouettes 
deep down range.