Homecoming: Stateside and New York by Ben Hall

Everything here irks

possessed, all of it, of some

 

Country Home stupidity.

The plates are squared with idiot curves

 

at their corners, and every flat surface

clatters with uselessness.

 

Didn’t you know?

Fat people keep fat houses

 

The young girl that cleans is pretty

in that long and fuzzy

 

gentle kind of way.  She

slips old pig to the dogs and

 

I’ve had enough of art, this art

that fits inside

 

a pretty vase or frame

inside a pretty house

 

where there is art

art stacked high and clamoring proud upon art

 

but never any food.

 

This young girl, she recalls you to me in that

she too plays this game                       of revealing

 

herself to men             obliquely,                    betraying

from another room      a glimpse of shoulder

 

On the far side of the Earth, another young girl

walks me through the aisles

 

points to a picture frame and says,

That’s beautiful.  

 

So it is.

So leave it.

 

As with the clothes, the bottles in decay,

the brown-dried blood, and other phylum of debris

 

Leave it.

Let it fester.

 

I hate a clean wound.