My So-Called Sonnet

for B.

this room has only one door
& a theory has everyone in deathtraps
to tell me that woman is an egress
that absconds with measuring spoons
whose oldwives programs start
at ten, & we watch the stories
live richly as earringed dowagers
where a typist brought a class action
correcting the opiates in a shame
to dismiss chivalries of teenagers
now you know the true rockies
that exit peoria, and the bay area
that was never leaving but going
in as many disposable migrations