The Bone-man lives in a stucco
house. He ticks his heels
on the cold terrazzo floor.
He parks his ragtruck
in the yard, instructs his crew
on the white telephone.
I am training my dog
to attack the red-capped hunter
bearing his long package.
I am training the tethered jay
to cry out against
the killer who cracks the latch.
On the open map, the road
to my house bulges like a vein.
He takes a train, he rents
a car, he lurches in
with an open fly. Sweet Eve
was just the Farmer’s Daughter,
he wooed her with a wormy apple.
He’s a dirty joke, he’s
always everybody’s last
lover, he’s a regular
can of worms—you wry Medusa,
I am a mongoose staring you down.
