I ignite my morning fizzles:

—the 9 o' clock burn
of esophagus sausage.

—the channeling through fire
of bipartisan waves.

—damping my fuse
with the blazing roach.

—scorching my phone
with the hottest of air...

...and while my bombs wait
for the chemical connection,
I sit square on the bus,
seeing broader daylight.

Then subito, the music plays piano;
here be the smolder tail
trailing up the human hearth—
the 10 o' clock blast
of vomit allotment.

A second salvo proceeds; crescendo
to fortissimo. The patter
of disgusted creatures—
cringing through clouds of political whiffs.

The third flare-up leads off
with me in mess from me.
I hold the fermata steady
and build the tension torch—
rekindling my fuse
with a searing scream.

Only in broader night light
do I hear the fourth, not final bang.
In a room built like a bomb shelter,
I get a five minute report
from my short fused wife, con fuoco—
scorching my phone
with the loudest explosion...