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.