Compound (Interlude)

Lay it to rest like your mother before
Postwar brownstones piling at the shoreline
Compound words piling
At the fringe of your vernacular

Heavyfooted ovenheaded postmodern woman
Hollowhoused sallowcheeked
Words lapping over over over

In the winter you ran yourself like an errand
Ran yourself like a train under
Some edge-of-town bridge
Wrote yourself a grocery list
On the back of last week's receipt
Thin paper ouroboros turning in your pursepocket

You baptized your children
So they could bury themselves beside your mother
Under some edge-of-town bridge
Besides the terrible grayed fish
And the fisherman you envied
For his suncrisped neck

Your mother
Whose last plea was for certain times
You're sure that's what she said
But then it all piles up

Receiptpaper words the taxman never reads
In boxes the landlord pitches into the river behind you
This place is a pileup, that's what the fisherman said
My mother always said
This place is a compound