Queens

Half sleeping man and cat, white rug awaiting disaster, non-magnetic fridge
going to the store for prepared foods only, generating trash and feeling warm
arranging rectangles as if to fight, as if to distract from angles, to make a home.

Once they found that planet and it was the best poem I'd ever written and now
I can't even be bothered to know anything else about that planet, what happened?
That planet was always flipping back and forth like how it's not ok to be but

everyone is.

Half sleeping man and television, off, prismatic and silent.
Long-awaited venetian blinds promising glamour, and, again, cat.
Guitar in the corner, used, and ukulele, lonely. Furniture sphynxlike.

Shelves of modest height and plaster teeth, the lamps we will discard and those we won't.
The planet shifts poles, that's it, and did it have water? With all the chances I have
I won't even look, won't ever, the two scratching posts, the stairs, the blue windows floating in dark.