I am not even vaguely interested,
though for a quarter I could be.
I was not allowed to move but when my leg went dead
I cheered it on in the first place.
When they whisper they ought to wear a lead vest.
Their lips look like personified oysters.
When they shout it is usually addressed
to the dead body who owned it before us.
We can safely assume one of them is born
every minute of the day.
When my rabbit ran away it was a great relief.
I could not say so—who would understand?—
So I cried for a week.
Source: Ruefle, Mary. “When Adults Talk.” Selected Poems. Seattle: Wave Books, 2011. Print.