dream: there's a mausoleum here
said the Spaniard
where my friend's grave used to be.
this renovation is the second
   desecration
      of her tomb.
see here, beneath the mud and
the newspapers, where the pictures
have been put
detailing how we made ourselves
   small like cannonballs
and were shot from the cannon.
he proceeded to go on at length
   in Spanish.
I believe he was the one
   who woke me at 3:15 this evening,
      on the button.
Mary wouldn't let me set the alarm
   knowing that once her sleep was disturbed,
     she would not go back down.
pills, earplugs, large masks,
   everything short of a ball peen hammer
to keep her asleep at night.
not even the willful influence
   of art
   could excuse any of it.
we nearly fought over it,
   my need for self trespass.
there was a cold shoulder
   instead, a denial of
the usual bedtime customs.
it is only reinforcement of what
   is already known,
      as if there needs to be more.
so I have to thank the Spaniard,
   even if all I do is complain.

we went shopping today, she and I.
   the Bon Marche had a sale,
      so did TJ Maxx.
   I could not keep up.
I bought things I needed, she
   bought things she wanted.
earlier there were garage sales,
   where I found a small food processor
   and a typewriter.
     things I wanted, second hand.
   she bought nothing.

those who made themselves small
   like cannonballs
shot themselves across the yard
     for art     for fame
   had their second moment in
a mausoleum with pictures
   and third as it was torn down.