keeping the hand of god in my pants...

I think that my neighbors
are beginning to suspect.
I've been hiding the evidence --
shades pulled, desk light dim,
rough drafts stuffed under
the pillows on the couch --
but these efforts are undermined
by all the things I overlook:
the grass in the yard is
nearly chest high already
and the cat has given up on
reproachful looks, choosing to
try her luck further down the street.
It's true that my car
always starts the first time
but the back seat is useless for
groceries, being filled with
manuscripts awaiting postage.
Under my outdoorsy flannel
I'm usually wearing
a black, 60's-style catsuit
but maybe it was the beret
that seemed out of place
in the suburbs.
The neighbors are definitely
worried, although there
haven't been any complaints yet.
But just in case I
moved my desk into the basement
where I can scribble
in dusty isolation
and where noone will overhear
my cackling in the night.

        -acm (2/96)