Poem in the Middle of the Afternoon

This afternoon I am bored by poetry
so I open the window to my bedroom
and feed a pigeon named Rex, “a flying rat,”
as my octogenarian neighbor calls it,
and yell to the super down in the courtyard
that the actress I am seeing,
a leggy, toothsome brunette from Estonia,
or perhaps the former Czechoslovakia,
I don’t remember which one, exactly,
because maps are confusing to read and borders
are always redrawn to suit the wishes of military
strongmen anyhow, has asked me
to marry her, even though we’ve never
met in real life, as the kids like to say—
just in the pages of the local celebrity
magazine, each new edition of which I keep
in a locked, lead box under my bed
in the event that I miss her and feel the need
to rub my face with a picture of her
at the Oscars or a charity golf game,
even though I don’t particularly like popular films,
and despite the truth that golf is meant
as a leisure activity for the bourgeoisie. My super,
who goes by “Papi” or “San Isidro,” depending
on the weather forecast, yells something
in Spanish (Quechua?) so twisted it sounds
like he’s repeating a recipe, one which does not
call for capers, despite my fondness for them
and for exotic tastes in general. As a way of saying
thanks, I call him a “son of a bitch” and an “asshole,”
because this is how men in New York behave,
even when there is nothing to be angry about;
“such are the vagaries of language and the human
spirit,” I add in the event that he expects a healthy
tip, during Christmastime, for his efforts. I then close
the window, making sure Rex remains on the ledge,
and later wonder, while sitting in an E-Z chair,
what to make of this American malaise.