Spring Cleaning Poem by Morgan Michaels

Rake your hair, shake the debris
into bags and store them under your eyes.
Paint your cheeks the azure of the skies.
Open the cupola window-
it's gotten a bit close up there
having been shut all year.
(but what does that have to do with the price of gas?)
and into your winter-weary mouth slip teeth
that cleave fast to your god-given gums.
Let the syringa have its way with you.
Take your pills, give yourself a shot
flick a quarter to the bums-
not much, you, true,
but, baby, you're all you've got.