5 April 97 
 
Mary Pat, Devourer of Information 
 
 
A Saturday afternoon 
forgetting the spring day lacking the fuzzy feeling 
that snuggles under my skin even if a stiff breeze blows 
 
Touched by that bit of madness that grows ever outward 
 
Some neglected dirty dishes, a broken glass on the counter, 
grease splatters on the side of the fridge, 
mummified crumbs that emit their baked-dead stench 
 
My whirlwind spirit arose at the sight of a bottle of Pine-sol, 
a box of baking soda 
 
I need to do something while the radio is on. 
 
 
There's an inner secret, 
Ariadne still giving out thread even though Theseus is long gone 
 
A theme of prices and seeped-in myths no one recognizes as myths 
 
Cigarettes, public radio, bus commuting 
Heads of the same hydra? 
 
One of the greats has passed on. 
Lucky that I heard it now,  
and not at the cheering end-of-the-year corpse list. 
 
The end of a howl a great way to kick off National Poetry Month 
 
Compressing meaning into the smallest possible space, 
the coal-words become transparent 
reflecting the world on their measured facets  
 
I am glad I do not have a television. 
It spreads its images so sloppily,  
the kilo-word per frame sloshed like so much cheap beer. 
Pounded into an airy-thinness, 
the words fool you into thinking they are diamonds. 
 
I have my visuals 
As I listen to one who refuses to leave his store  
(Nature says: don't build in a flood plain!) 
I watch my hand age as I scrub. 
I see my skin in twenty years time. 
 
 
I polish a little corner of the world. 
It's not shiny, but the stains are gone now.