Give me three minutes.

I’ll reach inside,
seize a block of ice,
chop off a piece,
fling it at you,
set you on fire,
then dip a spoon
in the water
and put you out.
And all in three minutes —
pop song time;
for how many generations now
has that been enough
to get the job done?

Astonishment
and heat, my stock in trade;
speed and gesture, tools
in my pocket; caution
a chock kicked out from under the wheels…

give me three minutes
and I’ll give you the cold news
you seek.

Give me three minutes,
five paddles, your screams,
your shouted unison lines,
your prayers and curses
when the scores fall
for and against me,
and I think we’ll have a show —

yeah, we’ve got a show.

And afterwards,

all the other words
I didn’t use
can bubble from me
in hotel rooms or
on street corners,
can surf whispers into
a momentary lover’s ear,
can be spilled in corners
for you if you stop for a moment;

give me three more minutes
and I’ll do what I do
when family is around:

what I do
when family is around
is melt all the way down.