SONNET OF THE WHITE HATS

This one stirs up bubbles. That one spices
and fries. The other one doesn't stir—
at least not dark lies. This one's super fly. 
That one longs for daughters. The other one
is A.I. This one cries and that one smirks,
which makes the other one cry and this one
laugh. This leaves that one sautéing while
the other one salutes. This one's a statistic,
that one could become my soulmate. I like
the other one most—we'd make another one
on the roof watching cars go by as pigeons
on the fire escape across the street inflate,
take off, fly, and fly—whatever. We're fine
as long as they don't poop into my wine.

__

GENTLE HANDS

are and have been hovering over,
guiding, directing you
since you became you.

Countless times a day, streaming
images and catchy jingles
tell you what to want,

which is everything money can buy:
processed foods, fast cars, gadgets,
tickets. After you work overtime

to pay for it all, gentle hands
set me down
beside you. Listen:

Toys are us. We are the world.
I'm your sonnet and your hand.

__

ON "Sonnet of the White Hats": I grew up around working class immigrants who were always cooking when they weren't working, often in greasy restaurants. Neighborhood adults were known for their kitchen habits and favorite dishes, which, while basic, were invariably addictive and comforting. Nob Hill also had lots of [pigeons], everywhere, begging like hungry kittens for food even though they looked overfed.

ON "Gentle Hands": I'm keenly aware of constant bombardment not just by ads and commercials but also by normative messages even in art—concerts, movies, comic strips, stories, memes, and reels. In "Gentle Hands," the poem admits to being part of the onslaught: "gentle hands / set me down / beside you." Compare these words to those of John Ashbery in ["Paradoxes of Oxymorons"] ("the poem /  has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you").