This nation is too large
for your janitorial ambitions.
The are cornfields in Nebraska
you’ve never seen and weevils
in North Carolina that ignore your presence.

Some morning there may be loving
spikes laid against your tires
or a bullet like a.m. television
may whiz past your so-called thoughts,
but most likely people will hate you
quietly honorably and forever
the way we hate suicide.
Marilyn, the people you listen to
are sick and tired of life.

Where I grew up mothers raised and doctors healed,
but this is Santa Cruz, I guess,
where everyone’s gone mad.
What kind of a doctor is your husband, anyway?
And what kind of a mother are you?
Are the lights on yet, mother?