I am given to old-fashioned notions--
you might find my calling card
and have to fuck with it while juggling groceries and your keys,
your life a tough clog, the door a riddling Sphinx.
You might think me too quaint to take seriously,
wrapped in my shawl, a book under my arm.
You're in, setting shit down, taking a breath, but there's the bell--
who, now? Just me, peddling anarchy,
slipping the dynamite stick into your mail slot;
whispering baby talk to the bomb I made and set on a doily
at your doorstep, a shy and retro demonstration
of my love for you, and my devotion to things fashioned by firelight
and brought back, bursting, from a sweeter past.