Talking of Rent in the Classroom

I don’t recall the way to Santa Fe,
nor do I measure my life anymore.

I’ve become that simple spoon
lying bare in my coffee cup,
screaming for the great Prufrock
revival, I shine—a mirror
of midnight hanging
from a wind chime,

increments of stars comparable
to Santa Fe’s—

that’s democracy, I tell you.

But I haven’t a care for
the world, for tiny increments,
for vertical or horizontal
asymptotes, my x-axis
and y-axis melting together
in the great crucible
of the coffee cup.

And I roll my pant legs
up like J. Alfred,
measure my life no more,

and count each of my
525,600 minutes
in spoonfuls of ether.