A trapezoid. Piano keys fill soup bowls.
The moon wreaks havoc on the dandy
in a field of proclamations.
A chamber pot. Walk-in closet rife
with used jackhammers. I find a helmet
by the washer-dryer for my free
free-speech call. The power dips
during dinner, sends every clock protesting.
I am reminded I do not declare
enough. Not customs—accounting.