we ride our bed like a boat, like a stupid
horse, down West 4th Street, trying

to speed up by clapping, by calling names,
but it floats slowly, like a blind retarded

child, past the street signs, over the steaming
cabs and I turn to ask you about your sick

dog /phone which broke/barked horribly
yesterday when you threw it out the window,

but you have gone, leaving one slipper,
and your retainer, glittering, yes, like gold

Christine Hamm