Manning the Turnstile on River Styx

by Mark Rubin

In the absence of a third eye, I have a third ear
for knowing what to say and when not to say it.
I am more present than I appear, at times
a heroine’s hero in a life
that includes me, but isn’t me, a story
whose shape-shifting plot fills
a heart that can’t be found
that makes a mess that can’t be swept. As in —

I need to be really no really important how do I know

you disappear you left me are you going to

call me back it’s an emergency up yours

under your umbrella don’t hang up

you’re mean you don’t listen I don’t know you

do you want to get rid of me do you

think about me when you’re sleeping

I’ve picked out a tree you’re a liar why

did your eye twitch I hate you the old

you knew what to say fuck you sorry sorry

are other people more important you are

unethical can I curl up on your shoe

I will never trust you again even

when you’re old you can’t die

pinkie swear you won’t leave do you

have stars in your shoes I’ll visit you

in the nursing home I’ll make sure

you have water I’m a whore I’m gum

on a shoe I don’t feel okay I’m scared.

At noon I unwrap a corned beef sandwich
and stare at a Kosher pickle.
At five-ten I row myself home.
Alms for the poor, poor kitty-kitty.
A green parakeet sings for my pleasure,
for room, board and takeout
when I appear at the door, my briefcase
filled with wind, dust — the usual.