Bobby Lobotomy
Time again for Mosquitoes, for west
of the tracks virus, for nodding and wilt;
time and terror and aerosol,; time for dog fur
in your sweat and car seats making
gravy; time again for post nasal tick searches,
snapping bloated grapes from ankles; time
for grooming condensation just outside
your brain, where cocaine penetrates
and paroxysmal fonts dip fingers
for blessings, achoo dear. Time for
the heat to probe and scoop;
time kept by the clicking of junebugs on the screen
the sound of a mechanical limb that never tingles
when you sleep on it, nor articulates
improperly when you reach for the pencil
you dropped just beneath the desk
in front of you in the memory of the world’s
hottest classroom, where they put you for
“observation”. It’s time, ding dong,
your shoulder’s wrenched wrong
and there may never be another kind of pain;
time for hallways bumpercar-ed and sneaker
squeaks to take you to a distant cube
of light which one way is the door
to the nurse’s office where the heartbeat
quickens from the warm beer
and allergy medication, and the other way
is to the courtyard where sweet bees
in the warm air will devastate against
your chest because you are a mass
in the way of all the beautiful flowers;
a mass growing in a blossom, a gray x-ray
in your head, in a room in an orange blossom
the fragrance of which is like a blanket,
heady and beating against the front
of your brain to get out.
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