Voulez Vouz Lait?
I.
Look at the way they praise the oil,
hold the O of morning in mugs.
Race to jackhammer ribbon
to ink, air. Look—
how they sip
with dumb smiles
like parched camels,
sip, like bored dogs.
Each certain it keeps
the body attached
to the world. I’m going
to stick with this 2%.
II.
I was in second grade when Jesús
the janitor lured a few of us kids
to the coffee cart
out in the schoolyard, the big brown
dispenser an office building
full of boiled black water.
We plunked sugar cubes
in our Styrofoam mugs
already brimming
with rebellion,
and gargled the dark sun,
shook hands with sour rain.
III.
Like a sucker I claim I take up
the silt that lures me.
Each morning: turn me on.
I beg the drops.
And peck the screen to hear
a pulse. Choked
by the extra beats
of my heart
by midnight—
its silo
of breaking
wings
locked
in buzzing.
