I'll read Ginsberg
with my breakfast cereal,
sweep the floors
with dreams of beautiful
brilliant Jonathan
Safran Foer,
bathe my daughter
and tuck her in
with Whitman
and shove hoards
of clothes into those
big white ugly machines
wondering where that stain
came from on Jack's
brand new slacks
while the slow snow
falls and covers up
this dirty 2008
and most of those
men are dead but
their minds still haunt
domestic little girl-women
in rural Virginia.