(...A cat named Librium
in a room full of rocking chairs
carved in the forms of cats.)
Oh, stop!
the travel agent
is arranging my marriage
and a long trip afterwards
alone, I do not want to go
to Ohio West Virginia and Kentucky,
the acidic strip mines,
the 50-year coal fires underground.
In his anteroom
this lady--in a wetlook
jumpsuit, high society--accosts me
and my young friend, she has been to the play
and had to leave last night before the second act,
she says tonight she wants to take us both,
wrestles young friend to the ground.
I am no help.
I pick a copy of the Boston Phoenix
out of a rack in the agent's vestibule
among the Hubbard squash and the green peppers,
it says in two places I am marrying,
I am planning a long trip alone. Oh, manager!
explain how this comes to be; oh, travel agent,
I am going to sue you and, sir, I know
I am powerless, please will you give me the names
of others you have ill-treated in this way,
we shall all band together. I wave him the maps
in his face, all that remains of the evidence,
the documentation. The people
keep on coming but the train's done gone,
it is taking us everywhere
we do not want to go.
