Bats twin the sky drowsy from billowing home to watch Night Court.

I, Nikki, as a contemporary woman: is bound to ask who’s spiraling in the faucet.

If you keep no-lye relaxers on your hair past the suggested time frame,

the original crimple pattern becomes more defiant. Memories won’t comfort me,

perhaps it’s best not to trust the politics of people who haven’t washed their own dishes in twenty years.

O missile management, I request a transfer 4 the masses a happy howling cocktail showing

instead of telling this country That. I. Cannot. With. You. A freed daylight may be possible,

the revolt in us, I mean. Stems are still holding like a grown up but they snap. You pick me up,

pour me another bath, a glass of something dry for the blisters, read Ted Joans’ Hand Grenades

remember that I’m not the only one and cry.