Another holiday has come and gone | Bob Hicok

It’s shoot an arrow 
into your ceiling day, I’m out of arrows, 
I go to the neighbors 
to borrow a cup of arrows, they’re making love 
on the floor doggy style, in that 
she barks then he barks 
at her barking, then its over 
and they circle in front of the door 
to be let out, we’re trapped, 
I tell my lover later 
on the phone, do you mean us, she asks, I lie 
and tell her no, I mean every other person 
but us, we are free, we 
are entirely wings and little bits 
of fog and the open windows 
of speeding cars and Carmen 
at the end, when the performers 
take their bows to the rush of air 
from between our palms, forgetting 
she is deaf, that she’s heard nothing 
I’ve said, that this is a poem, 
that I am out of arrows and more 
importantly out of bows