You'll think you've got it made,

all those years spent on evolution,

invention, only to catch glimpses of a

lonely loved one in an oil splattered stovetop,

ants trafficking escapes of apricot Danish crust.

I see floating bugs in baggy eyes, think about

giving up mirrors, giving in to optometrists.

We are what we fear we'll inherit from either outrage.

How did we ever

get this far?

How did we ever

let it get this far?

I ask Windex while you tinker with that

stupid refurbished Dyson.

What if loved ones stop by, see what it’s like

when loaf pans soak their feet for days. Mugs

of rainbows trapping sand gnats. Smells

testing our will to keep up appearances & postures.

There's something with the city lately—

It's attracting houseflies & houseguests.

Somewhere in it a woman said she had

forty flies in her kitchen. Me too, I said,

but that was a lie. Why couldn't I admit I only had four?

What's the shame in fewer flies? I just never want our kitchen

coming off cleaner than others when we have forty golden earwigs

at our threshold, asthmatic spiders escaping your stupid Dyson.

What if a press corps of loved ones stops by,

sees what it’s like when we see ourselves with

earwigs? Sand gnats. Beetles. Spiders. Stewing

in the outrage of our outrage.

Oh, I've mistaken fear for creativity, loneliness

for laziness, and apprehension for love. For loved ones,

I laugh now, or that one kind of laugh with

no kind of smile, flashing past the last

shining edge of our crummy stainless-steel toaster,

laughing as I'm cleaning, mistaking loved ones

for reasons to run away. Mistaking running

as a novel invention. Oh, you've got it made.

You have got that made.