BATS

the bats have flown out of my attic and into my bedroom
and livingroom and kitchen and bathroom and the boys'
old room and the hallway. the cat can't get to the bats
because she can't fly. i can't get to the bats because i
can't cry.  mozart plays on the cd player, given by
the bats to me when they were friendly and kind and
loyal. but they were bats and said i was the problem
with america and said i have an elevated sense of myself
and that i'm a phony and that i'm inauthentic as a poet
because i don't run around publishing my work or making
batbooks or whatever else you want to call the stuff that
flies around this batty country in the dark.

anyway, i'm here and alone and have no one to talk to.
not even my woman who probably thinks i'm bats if
not inauthentic and phony and possessed of an inflated
sense of my own worth and importance.

but, truly, really, without the bats, i used to be pretty
damn good and might still be.


rich quatrone
debattified
23apr12
1:13pm
sprung leak