an apartment poem

no prison cell with waves of humanimal sound
no rockets overhead, no brave and bloody battleground
no posh night-club where sex and fruit vodkas abound

No, the universe placed me in an apartment
in a small American downtown
with churches, banks, restaurants,
and a library

On a green plastic table
are anarchic stacks of books:
Russian short stories,
pioneer wagon wheels,
the dreams and teachings of Thai Buddhist monks,
the sea breeze immersing young Darwin
as The Beagle approached the galapagos islands

There are shelves of canned soups
and rarely used pans,
a hot tray of mac and cheese
in the sturdy white microwave
that's been mine since college,
a french clock left over
from a passionate lover,
juniper-carved maple leaves from a dear friend
on a whitish wall with cottage-cheese bumps,
and my square robotic friend
that tells me of revolution in Egypt,
radiation in Japan,
and street cuisine in India

On the frig are dozens of medicines and supplements,
on the stove an afternoon champagne bottle,
on the wall a poor man's canvas
of passionate, primitive shapes
(wide-eyed coffee cups and sharp-fanged concepts)
grown of an afternoon
in my depression-variety garden