I washed a bowl
of grapes for you.
And it’s silly,
Because if you
Wore your glasses,
Or had a
I might not even
But I will
The wrinkled ones.
You can have the rest.
“The School Bus”
Sarah G. Adler
The windows encrusted in boogers —
the first part of me I learned to leave for others
Under the bench with thigh sweat (mine, other’s) sulks lunch, and a retirement home of pencils (I won’t kill them)
Six skinny legs, the last row; it smells like Friday
the Midwest always smells like Friday
The Bus Driver caresses the accelerator, and we slither
to The Back
This is where everything happens before it’s
I don’t look.
I know because Martha gets up
we are home
I’ve never spoken to her but she signifies
We are vomited and the caravan drives away
It is so silent, I forget to breathe For 26 minutes
I get on the ground and pick out the sock fuzz
from between my toes.
This is something I have learned to leave for others.
God is in the box.
The cat is in the box.
The physicists watch the box.
God is deciding if π/π equals 1.
The cat is playing with yarn.
The physicists are deciding whether the cat is alive or dead.
God can see between the atoms of the box and laughs at the physicists.
They don’t know if God is in the box so don’t wonder if she is alive or dead.
The physicists lift the box and see the dead cat.
God laughs and lifts the box, and sees monkeys in powdered wigs
poking a dead cat with a stick.
An infinite number of monkeys
On an infinite number of typewriters
One day wrote “Hamlet,”
But they couldn’t read it.
They screeched at the pages
To disclose their secret meaning.
When it did not, they beat it with a stick
And flung their feces at it.
Then took a lunch break.
Because they were out of bananas
They decided to eat Hamlet
Instead. He tasted old, but dangerous,
And the words got stuck in their teeth.