Peter Jay Shippy

A Flower of the Proletariat

1

The sudden April flurries thicken my tongue.
On TV an old cartoon: a rooster combs his comb

and steals red roses from the farmer’s gravestone
for his big date. My neighbor is riding his snowplow

door to door. He wears a lei of garlic. He wants us
to sign his petition. He’s one of those lizards

you find on a remote island—cut off from par evolution—
who has acquired eccentric gifts: a second stomach,

an eye in the back of his head, a sweet tenor voice.
I should talk? Me with the unmatched coffee cups?

2

The truck’s yellow lights diagnose my dark living room.

3

When I finally surf back to the cartoon, the rooster
is chased by a cadre of ghosts. He drives a wooden car

into the sea and paddles so fast his wings are a smear.
The ghosts stand on the shore hurling starfish

and insults. It seems that water travel is forbidden
to the dead. I write this tidbit on my forehead.

4

Last week I found a bee holding slow to a Venetian blind.
The first of the season? The last of the batch?

I put the bee inside my mouth and place our heads under
the shower to shield our wherefores from the whereof.

5

The truck stops to let the tide lap its plow, its headlights
wound the beach, it inches forward then disappears.