He gave a speech at a residence.
A bird flew on his head.
A patsy attacked him with swears.
It ruined the fundraiser at his brother's,
though they came to apologize.
He went home with the apologizer,
climbed through the window to the roof,
then back inside for bed wrestling.
He woke later and watched her leave,
dressing as she went. A car started.
Her big sister used to live across the hall,
with a husband in the army.
He'd fed their fish over some vacation.
Now where were the fish, the armies?
What was that in the corner of his life:
the turkey skin of his mother's calves
as she napped in shorts on the divan.
How coarse could one skin be?
The slow clock says too late to call home.
Tomorrow's the election, and elections
tumble forward into the future,
the future there in the crumble of bread
zigzagged open on his cutting board.