Sense Data

At the window,
I am the one yelling incredible,
filling myself with the weight
of vitamin D and traffic.

Only occasionally does my path
come to crisis with a parking car.
This is my task for the day:
keep the street clear
make space for the eventual
moving truck.

Amen. Look at this puppy. No,
in the screen.

Proletariat of the clouds.
Proletariat of cylindrical objects.
I can’t hear what you say when
you whisper. Oh, amen. Sure.
I’m looking at the puppy. No,
a different one.

Later and upstairs, the movers
are stripping bolts
and muttering better poems
under their breath.
The furniture comes down
in unrecognizable shapes.
Shapes you could pray to,
or that could hold your prayer.

What? No, my sense data is private.
Only Wittgenstein has it. He bundles it
up in yards of bubble wrap
and the good bed linens.

Right? Oh, well then
take your jacket off.

---