Jay Snodgrass

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.