POINT THE FINGER

I hired a potted plant to balance above the door jam
quietly while I accuse it of my irresposibilities.
I named the plant after my older brother.
I named the plant Jeff Edward.
In front of the apartment where I live
my creditors sing me the old songs my parents once knew
about beards of bees and bears playing drums.
When my creditors come to sing I bring the plant
in a polished brass pram out onto the porch.
I smack my lips and smile and whistle
and slap my chest and tell Jeff Edward
that we should both be grateful to live
in a town so full of singing creditors.

If it is cold when the creditors come,
I raise the pram’s venetian shade over Jeff Edward to coo
like a fat, one-legged, french pigeon with only half my feathers
and a large, puss-filled boil under my earhole.

If it is warm when the creditors come,
I peel off my clothes and stiff scabs
and I lick my bruised belly button
in front of Jeff Edward.