How about don’t call me angel of the morning

until your eyes know for sure that the thick rim

of light you see is just an inker’s outline in the sun’s

calligraphy pen. Even gas prices being what they are

doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it, sprinkling

myself with pungent, biting ritual meal. This will

be on TV when you watch it with your toddler,

but they have to grow up sooner or later, and we

may as well all get this party started on my terms.

Call me bedtime for bonsō. Call me martyr.

Call me anything you want, just don’t call me

late for dinner! They say it doesn’t even hurt,

asphyxiation takes over so quickly one might

as well just do it in their Mazda with a dishrag stuffed

in the tailpipe, speakers leaking “Dancing Queen”.

But what then of the whirling grey union with the breeze?