Tonight we can be anyone we want:
a woman says she’s entropy
but nobody gets it; a lobster
pulls a card from the deck with his claw.
It matches the one in my hand. Outside,
a werewolf screams into a pay phone
then deposits more coins. A while ago,
a passive aggressive divorced a narcissist
with manic tendencies. Their daughter
showed signs of regression so the court
assigned her a lawyer. There are tests
designed to unmask one’s maladjustments,
personality bents, significant elevations
on the not-in-the-child’s-best-interest scale.
The court-ordered psychologist told me
denial would not be tolerated
in his sessions. I looked back at him, listening
to the air conditioner kick on, then off.
I wish it were five years from now.
Then it is. I see my daughter and ex-wife
like binary stars, bright, cheerful
and a billion miles away. In the lobby
an alien samples the quiche, he talks
about the building’s footprint. A cool
breeze from the open window stops me—
the sweet scent of fallen leaves and rain.
It is a difficult joy that rises out of grief.
A crow caws along with the music, then stops.
In another room a woman pulls off
her goat’s head, a man tears up his face.
Michael Puican has had poetry published in Poetry, New England Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, TriQuarterly, and Courtland Review, among others. He writes poetry reviews for TriQuarterly, Kenyon Review, and Another Chicago Magazine, among others. His chapbook, 30 Seconds, was selected as winner of the 2004 Tia Chucha Chapbook Contest. He was a member of the 1996 Chicago Slam team and is current board president of the Guild Literary Complex in Chicago.