My Nucleus

The notebook papers flip
with the smell of new
while the mother grows
tired of the infant she
sold to Post Partum—
tired of the clipped
assembly line of
chickens, cows,
pigs, babies.
My life streams
through these like
the good vein awaiting
the tourniquet. I have
"problems" too but
like I told Judith last weekend—
they truly don't matter.
My speechwriter wrote my story
and it started in the midst of
trees and gumbo—
splashes and lines—
carrots imploring eyesight.
My soapbox smells
of wet dog and Laffy
Taffy and screams:
Do not feel sorry for me
because I do not feel
sorry for you because
life is yeast with
occasional binary fission
and this is my nucleus
condensed.