Dislocated

I’ve dug myself a hole
in the right thigh,
and poured the concrete
to hold a mail box pole.

I’ve put port windows
over my kidneys,
and let the swallows in
under my chin.

Thumped like a bellows
and belching emptily…
the night asks,
“To whom? To whom?”

The chipmunks won’t come out
from under the lungs
and give up all the closet space
I’ve justly abandoned.