You must go back in time: would you prefer
to live the life of a slave owner, or the life
of a slave? Or to be the wife and/or ex-wife
of one or two cohabitating monsieurs
in Brooklyn, February dusk’s longuer
filtering through the glass: an ontology rife
with bad questions as a mad toddler with a knife:
you must answer; you cannot demur:
chair turned backwards: —look, I’m gonna rap
at y’all: you would choose, if pressed, to own
derision in your life and in your Twitter mentions
if paid for your inflammatory crap,
cool to date your ex, too bored to bone
though, and only in it for attention.