Living in Lo Barnechea

I sweat but that's not why
the blue chair's wet. Yesterday
while I waited for today to come
rain came. James missed it. Spit
the day right out and felt better,
kind of randy. God if I get left
for good it'll be the neighborhood
in pieces, the telling quiet, the tendency
to continue for no reason, clearing
yard trash a bad one but sufficient
and tedious as a puppy. Worry,
chalky and ruinous like too much
cinnamon, releases a minute’s moods
on shore leave. Laundry. A fly in the
pancake batter then that rain. The ruin
crawled walls, ragged with waiting,
speak don't be a stranger and suck me
into a black wind. Enough learning!
In the middle of the night, I’ll generate:
I’ll golpearme soundly, activate
the phone tree, beer me memory
of it coming home dizzy, of it hitting me
stained with serviceberry, crumpled yolk
---that familiar handwriting
tells his hand to mark me black with spit.
Here in the mask of my face, it has had enough
of lunch. Enough learning. It wants surgery––