Once, I let a doctor stick a tube down my throat,
I was so broke, and take pictures of my esophagus
and stomach for $200, the same year I wore
an Easter Bunny suit in Quincy Market, my furry
rabbit arms around tourists (I’m probably
in more of their photo albums than my own
family’s) to pay a long-distance phone bill.
Piles of pictures—the appraiser who comes
with his digital camera to rate our homes
for how much it’ll cost to flee them.
The drone in outer space just took
a photo of you scrubbing the toilet for
an Open House, where your realtor
will bring cookies and brew coffee
so the place smells like someone’s home.
In Pakistan, people in the same family now
sleep apart because they do not want their
togetherness to be viewed suspiciously
through the eyes of the drone.
Tony Trigilio’s newest book is White Noise (forthcoming, Apostrophe Books, 2013). Recent poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Puerto del Sol, Salt Hill, The Seattle Review, Sixth Finch, South Dakota Review, Spinning Jenny, TriQuarterly Online, and 1913: a journal of forms.