[The lust grenade became a parade]

The lust grenade became a parade
of vigorous cleaning prior to shouting
the cleansing of a child’s tantrum, its mouthful
and complex needs pouring out still, the laughing Buddha

sitting on the sofa wiping only his brow: “To think
this could have come out in the bedroom: what do you do
now? Are you still scrub-scrub-scrubbing
what’s imaginary or not? “Out, dammed spot!”?” rubbing

every surface, the Buddha unable to get near
this foreign war; so he laughs more, his own brow
now down to its skull: “Alas, poor Yorick!” He sees himself
suppressing his own fall: “I should really have helped do

the dishes. Or redecorated my own walls”—this playbook
going on and on whilst hardly being played at all.