Bel Canto

The opera

In her head

Runs with no interval,

A lot of people singing tunelessly

About the same things.

An overheard

Comment like

A rotting peach.

The overzealous

Cockatoo of her impatience,

Flap flap. The slab

Of blue behind her

Is a sea of

Her doubts. The squirrel

In her stomach

Trying to get out—

They say you have to be

Twice as good. They say

There are pills

For everything now. Enamel

Eyes to see all

The better with, my

Dear. Fur coat

For your tongue—