Ahem…
threadbare wills at war
will recognize my unseen face
pockmarked with bravura,
an unnecessary foray into Goldilocks.

Canteen grub
an' a pocketful of gardenias
in the shape of Viagra.

These are subtle lamentations.

In the garage: a cherry peach,
a dual-carb fantasia,
a lapidary ecumenium.

Poking out from under
(like twigs out from under twigs.
I think you take my point.
Jaundiced, yes, I know.
Nevertheless, Truman Capote
wrapped his arms around me
and threw us down a flight of stairs.)

Did I say Truman Capote?!

There it is again,
poking out from under
like the cat beneath the throw
a tonsure of regret
traced in an ocean of maple brown sugar oatmeal.

Thrilling,
I think you’ll agree.

Perhaps not right away.
Plus, forty-one trellis struts
have collapsed on the writhing to your roof.

There’s a certain brand of optimism,
lashed with a teasing foam of indifference
that lets you down in the middle of the summer
easy.

Crumpled up
- there I go again -
(what have I got against insides?)
like a carotid artery
devilishly singing
"Row Row Row Your Boat"
in a penumbral corner of your abdomen.
When he gets to the line about
life being but a dream
he starts to laugh or cough or
taunt the demons of pronunciation
down from the top shelves of the bookcase
squaring off like pubescent combatants, drunk,
full of spoils and rapturous squeaks
of flesh-wrapped bone to bone
to reveal thromboses,
levers, radical reversals,
unaccounted for in the annals of sailing or the culinary arts.

True story.

But there…there!…
where the glass of milk spilled,
where the laundry line wrinkles in the hot, hot,
very hot sun.

I put my slippers on
but can’t find my glasses.