When a hot bit of my wardrobe comes back from the laundry
and, through my own inevitable clumsiness, it falls upon the floor like a lax-backed
explosions of a dozen different pants, boxers, and shirts,
(hanging them up in the bathroom while I shower will not remove their wrinkles, I just
it is a cornucopia spread from my cracked plastic basket onto the oriental rug, which
is a similar
outpouring from a fertile culture (or at least a cheap facsimile of one).
Clothes are fruits! socks are ears of corn! And the gourds, squash and leafy fronds
roll out insouciantly onto the mat
where I had planned to meditate before going to bed. I think instead of a faceless stone-
holding a cornucopia, still firing missile-fruit into the eyes of those
squinting so hard that tourism becomes an opportunity to practice Zen.
But what are my socks doing in the Louvre anyway, rolling down its tableaux-haunted
hallways like a skee-ball with no hole to call its home?