Exhaust

The suburban ecstasies beckon,
and I am still
at work, preparing
to drive away from them. NYC
you dirty son-of-a-bitchen crotch
puncher. Everything else says
my children. I hope my car
behaves, the night
does not
slam down too hard
on the daylight ivories, I don't
forget
to forget
silly combat.
I have been studying
economics
the way an old,
dogged, Red
Auerbachesque, cigar-
chomping high school
coach,
in search of his 300th
win, studies his opponents.
All they say
so far is: you trade
this
for that; all I know
so far is:
I haven't got
much this,
I need more
that, bad poetry
costs
just as much
as good
when you weigh it
on the same
slimy scale
that weighs
a pound of ham, quarter
pound of swiss,
and throw in a few
rolls for my girls.