for Thatcher Keats

my father jogs 50 miles barenaked
my mother glows like snow
my sister racks her brain for ways
            to remove the ought from slaughter

so much for show business

heat descends and those three owls flap up to the attic
frost crackles and those jackrabbits pound it to dust

so many people are quite exhausted
so many are hungry
many don't know where they're heading
            to sod maybe, to muck or smoke

oh little brother—
come over here where I'm slouching in my terry robe

dribble some milk on my wrists
kiss my anklets
would you believe I am developing a blister  
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