Dina and Dan Continue to Be Friends

ODD FUTURE

It must be that I tried writing different kinds of poems. Then death's arms stretched toward the woman in her antique decorated living room. But is this the one I want? It was now raining and she was pretending nothing happened. Will you kill yourself or continue living? She looked to her phone for flight information, not wanting to be disappointed, since good weather was starting up

but she read there was a slight chance that a seat will not be available. This made her sad. Then I am sad she said and maybe I will kill myself. She had half an hour ago stuck her head in the oven, turned on the gas, and

But everyone is along for the ride? It seems Can you save yourself the question anyone asks when they see us in the morning. It matters because the body you stole into has other plans of expenditure. Only some are good, or worth remembering.

The woman sits with her two dogs who look on pouting.

The light clatters down through the trees like glasses.

What it must be is I tried too hard, but

There are so many stupid things, a kind of wearing down

The instrument any effort would have likely seemed too hard.

For all that, I felt the throb of some locomotive in the back of my head

Which I had gummed up the previous seasons reading John Ashbery

Then I decided to leave it all. But you guard your tools

While at night you plan an addition

More death or antiques or breasts in this one.

And now you're ready, saying, in this one

I'm trying. I'm really trying.

She did not speak to her husband when she got back from the grocery and he went upstairs and turned on Sportcenter and fell asleep with his shoes on. She took the roast out of the oven and said You've got your dinner and she thought to herself, it's a damn fine dinner but then roast began to curiously look her own head and she worried had she severed her head and baked it. She looked away at the wall quickly. The wall was extremely blank. She had peeled the wallpaper off. She had photographed the wall. Then she had peeled the wallpaper and cooked the roast which had become her head. She had lived here for many years, cooking and cleaning. She had forgotten how long except that it was many years. She could hear her husband snoring. She looked at the phone jack now. There was no phone. She looked quickly at her cellphone, not wanting to be disappointed. The black yorkie curled up on the sofa next to the sandy colored terrier was much older than the sofa. She smiled at the dogs. They smiled at her.

She was either very short or very tall depending on the size you presented her. She looked curiously at her phone, not smiling, for there was a slight chance she had cooked her own head, her husband would not wake up, her dogs would die suddenly, she would grow the wrong the head and it would know the wrong things, would not wake up, the weather would take a turn for the worse. The worst? She should kill herself, if it was going to be like this, always wearing old clothes, always fretting that the head on your shoulders isn't the right head, checking the phone, having to keep herself fit--alas, she could not keep herself fit, could not keep her clothes new, for she was always wearing the oldest of fashions, Here's to the head who is going to eat my body, and she looked at the dogs and thought to herself, of her husband, who had been drinking a great deal, whether he were a coward or not, and she looked at the wall and she knew she was going to cry, but whose tears, hers or someone else's