Our Florida Driveway

You never blew
snow out of our
Florida driveway. Never
demonstrated a birthday

unless reminded. This
did not just become, was
evidently always,
purposeful. Dusting—
women's work, as
babies, scrubbing toilets,
malingering in strip malls
buying Hallmark drippage.

That silver car was cleaner
than your shirts, rolled to
sleeve, ironed into early
deaths. You were strong

in them, their stricture
pleased you. You never
kissed our gay black mannequin,
his headless fiberglass covered

over in bright scarves, Chinese
stork umbrellas. Add-on balloon
head. His name became Richard, although
he was dickless. But you were out. You

were partying. You never blew
snow out of our Florida driveway.