Diet Motivational Speaker Sleepwalks, and: At the Bank I Hand the Teller a Roll of Quarters, She Slips My Daughter a Roll of SweeTARTS and Might Tell Me I'm Overdrawn, and: The Corner Grocery Sells Lottery Tickets and Mackinac Fudge

Diet Motivational Speaker Sleepwalks

A pivot for a waist, dear.

There's a way to start this story, and it doesn't have to be anorexic.

We've all made almond cookies from scratch. Commended the sprinkles.Measured the cup of sugar, not even leveling it with a knife.

But remember, the body against a street of moving bicycles            (like famous people surround themselves with wheels).And remember, the camera always shiny with ready.

Pullthe granulated voicethe granulated walk            (across the spectators' spokes)—

You must give them so little            they desire always that you will                        walk out of any given wall.

Oh, I hear you say:        I would rather not return that cupful of sugar.        Could I return a cupful of something else? Perhaps, confetti—        a cupful of confetti is very useful.To this I must respond by reminding you,            We make change from our shallowest pocket.

I hear you say:        Pork and beans and potato chips taste real as reds and yellows.

I see you have a chocolate éclair in your bag.You must put all baked goods on hold,            and out of both of our eyesights.

In the end, this is my message,            A well-seasoned zucchini can both save and spend time.

To enter a wall, tear off a bit of nothing and put it in your pocket.And save me a titch of that éclair, would you?

At the Bank I Hand the Teller a Roll of Quarters, She Slips My Daughter a Roll of SweeTARTS and Might Tell Me I'm Overdrawn

My girl is polite, diffident.

They iron their faces there, iron the walls and counters.

Money smells like dried ironing and sweat                        kept in safety boxes.

Outside the tree wrings its chokecherries.

If I missed someone, ache would be a muddled color.If I missed someone a boot of night would fill my dresser drawer,            contortionist curl in the cupboard.

The teller asks numbers of me.

If I missed the one made of arched eyebrows        scalloping the edges of the room—

                whom I refuse to miss—

the totals would rub off the ends of the teller's fingers,blunt nubs rosined just enough                        to tack but not stick                                    to flat-faced bills.

My girl pockets the roll.

The Corner Grocery Sells Lottery Tickets and Mackinac Fudge

And you know every magazine-cover smile covets        the hotdog left behind the photographer to chill on the table

for the portrait's optimism, the spike-heel's confidence.

Outside, unkempt tops of hedges like lines of written prescription.Inside, lottery tickets heel on their rolls—            any eternality will do,       any reuptake will do—

Magazine pelvis so sharp it cuts the air where she walks.

At the tone, please leave your monologue.

Headline: There is global warming after all.A spokesperson has spokes.

To buy fudge, think of reaching so far you steam                        to look at the lover you wish for—

Make sure there is no camera in the room.