Satellite

You can broadcast your sparkle
into a tin radio with an old toaster cord
and that new electric red syrup in The Times.
When you stop to take off your pants
the words will keep things moving through this century.
I'll wait for you and find the right words
to describe what I see when I see it. I promise.
The moon is just so much
debris in the sky, and anyway, I'm lifting
a new form of myself out of bed
and dipping my face into the marvelous city.
Elegance has a price, like around
a hundred bucks for a shirt, that
should do it. Then you can sit with
the moody kids and mood out
while looking good.
Check this out: a satellite is picking
up every movement I make. Would
you like to come over and be tracked
by my own personal satellite?