poem of the day 02.17.11

stroke victims

the old bat who lived
above our bedroom
had a stroke
my wife tells me

the old bat
with her sinatra albums
blaring down on us
during dead sundays in bed

she had a stroke
and the landlord is renting out
her apartment

now there is a waiting game
to see who will move in

through hammers and nails
and buzz saws
the sound of men remodeling
the old apartment

in need of an owner
for the first time since 1947

we imagine worse than frank sinatra’s voice
assaulting us in the afterglow

we imagine the worst kind of people
taking her place

neo-yuppies
with their endless weekend parties
drag friends
and ridiculous tv at all hours

hipsters
blasting maudlin music all night
mistaking it for art
quoting movie lines through the thin ceiling
until we’ve gone mad

party girls
with their heavy clanking steps
with their sighing and laughter
their slut burps
and magnificent drunken fuck dates

frat boys
with endless loops of espn
and kid rock anthems
raining down

we’ve been here before
my wife and i

in countless apartments
in countless cities
in countless situations of domestic gloom

victims of the economy
victims of circumstance
and bad luck

stroke victims, too

humming death marches
to the sound of construction men farting
measuring the space
where some ignorant asshole’s
fifty-two inch television
will soon come to destroy us

set perfectly above
the pillows on our bed
where we lay our heads now
drinks resting on our bellies

no retreat
no surrender

in harmony with the fleeting silence

waiting for a new hell to arrive
on our battered and rocky shores

a new war to start all over again
in this scorched but steady landscape.