Blues

    I am lazy， the laziest

    girl in the world. I sleep during

    the day when I want to， 'til

    my face is creased¹ and swollen²，

    'til my lips are dry and hot. I

    eat as I please： cookies and milk

    after lunch， butter and sour cream

    on my baked potato， foods that

    slothful people eat， that turn

    yellow and opaque⁴ beneath the skin.

    Sometimes come dinnertime Sunday

    I am still in my nightgown， the one

    with the lace trim listing because

    I have not mended it. Many days

    I do not exercise， only

    consider it， then rub my curdy⁵

    belly⁶ and lie down. Even

    my poems are lazy. I use

    syllabics instead of iambs，

    prefer slant⁷ to the gong of full rhyme，

    write briefly⁸ while others go

    for pages. And yesterday，

    for example， I did not work at all！

    I got in my car and I drove

    to factory outlet⁹ stores， purchased

    stockings and panties and socks

    with my father's money.

    To think， in childhood I missed only

    one day of school per year. I went

    to ballet class four days a week

    at four-forty-five and on

    Saturdays， beginning always

    with plie， ending with curtsy.

    To think， I knew only industry，

    the industry of my race

    and of immigrants， the radio

    tuned¹⁰ always to the station

    that said， Line up your summer

    job months in advance. Work hard

    and do not shame your family，

    who worked hard to give you what you have.

    There is no sin but sloth³. Burn

    to a wick and keep moving.

    I avoided sleep for years，

    up at night replaying

    evening news stories about

    nearby jailbreaks， fat people

    who ate fried chicken and woke up

    dead. In sleep I am looking

    for poems in the shape of open

    V's of birds flying in formation，

    or open arms saying， I forgive you， all.