I.
Who is this on the hickory stool?
His hair flecks a dome that is
A magnificent cheese-wheel,
Flushed, red, slick;
Odorous munster that’s been
Dropped on a dirty bathroom floor.
Now topped with sparse hairs,
Dirt, flaked skin.
And wine-teethed chicklets, to utter
“Cheers” to his neighbor
Who fills his glass
For a five quid note,
And then, bows his head
To say his
Evening prayers.
II.
Why’s everyone so concerned with me
And my vintage?
Let me be and sip as I please.
How that one lock fell onto her sweater,
How her lips parted—
When she said she would show me where,
Would take me there! Hah! A goddamn cosmic dumbbell,
That’s what I became.
And tomorrow it will be me on the shore
Skipping stones on the bay.
And the buoys, well, the buoys will hasten
To the bottom of the sea. And I’ll be there with them,
That’s for sure—a dumbbell resting in the dark,
Just waterlogged jetsam looking up,
Wondering if the light that glimmers
Down through the sea is anything more
Than the silver moon winking.
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