Two Poems

A Towel’s Life The man comes in, washes his face, brushes his teeth. The woman comes in and goes to the bathroom— it took awhile to work up to this. He looks in the mirror as if he’s meeting himself for the first time. She throws a towel, he chases her to bed. I lie on the rack. Her mother calls. He watches too much TV. Their kids hate them. They get new towels. I end up in an apartment. The image is much less hopeful. He hits, she cries. The dog runs away. They get new towels—new or previously loved or whatever your favoured euphemism. I become a bird’s nest. They fight over seeds.   Ontology of Dreams Horses: sex. Crows: smarts. Tears: you’re in the wrong town. French love notes: the wrong country. Churches: you’re an imposter. Miniature horses: failure. Record players: you’re older than you claim. Soldiers: retirement. Alcohol: social anxiety. Social anxiety: infidelity. Tomb stones: a storm is coming. Storms: call your mother. High school reunions: the past is a coming. Stories: religion has failed. Classrooms: the war is over. Guns: start at the beginning.