As if he’s having surgery
Uncle History counts backwards
But there are no doctors
Just crows on the lawn
And before him a book on prosthesis
Men without noses, etc.
Why is he counting down?
The atrocities never end
No feel good movie can help
Nine, eight
In his mind he sees
Furniture—empire sofas
Ghastly armoires
Seven, six
If only he can make
All that Louis the whatever
Go away
Then at last
The children will be safe
But he has to hurry
He sees Tycho Brahe
With a hole in his face
Freud hiding
Under a couch
And time is running out
For domestic magic
Planet of the Blind 