Member Poem

state of confusion

A dark green corduroy in August heat
with pockets full of crying cubes in case
it gets too hot. I squelch my sweating feet
in smart-wool socks, then split my covered toes
through flip-flop thongs—it’s like cutting frozen butter
with a plastic fork. Ear muffs fit
quite well beneath the visor that I wear
as if I’m headed to the coast, and it
is bound to turn the roving eye when I slurp
my peach martini from ski-gloved hands.
                                                               I once
jumbled up my brother’s Rubix cube
to make him mad, but it had only helped
him solve it somehow.
                                   If I can twist myself
enough, perhaps my knots will untangle themselves.