In Our Palace
In our palace
I’m going for a walk along the boulevard.
I’m going to make a dead stop, to hammer houses,
rub mustache gel in my bangs. Won't smoke.
I’m gonna get a nobler cause than kissing.
The vacant doghouse echoes its cage;
this white handle tied by a flower ribbon.
It took five phone calls to make one translation.
It took everything in me to quit laughing when we had it, mush.
I’m gonna scrape this bowl of oatmeal and wash it with soap,
none for tomorrow in the morning
I’ll peel off the circle and walk to the store—fair warning,
a man will corner me, I'll say, "No, thank you!" and come home
without any dinner. So, lick your lips, cause this fridge is oatmeal
and at a five-sided table we kneel because there’s one chair,
a broken shrine by the door, but I pirouette
in our palace, I do this every day.