Impossible to unlearn
arithmetic of the century—
I produce, therefore I am
armed with a grocery cart
of personal tomatoes,
I push my private property
spend the day on a leash,
mouth unhorsed
across a checklist.
For years I muscled
into the chorus,
ideal fictions of normality
gathered in the drawing room,
flickered across television screens.
Please change the channel.
Tomorrow I’ll upgrade my phone,
split the bill
in American cosmology
there’s shortage
of toilet paper and solidarity,
still the money plant explodes
across terracotta
and window sills,
sweat licks
the lobe of my ear
and the cat is terrified
by the fan’s make-believe breeze.
Isn’t it luxurious?
Even in boredom
my mouth sugar-coated.