Common graves pan out
in a felicitous escapade – a waltz
of merry widows, their gigolos done up
as clockwork thugs. Six bells
& all is Not well. There’s this little matter
of the merchandise. One would have thought
that at your age you’d know enough to keep
your hands to yourself, but there you go. Down
with all hands, your mates making digging motions
on the tablecloth while you, on your hands & knees
under the table, can’t
come up with the goods – the lost ring
that you found in a cereal box & had the gall to give
to your third wife, your access to her blocked
as of Friday last by a perfect replica
of Louis Quinze, courtiers clamouring
for his attention, impossible
to get through. So where
is that model you’ve been boasting about – the one
for a new, safe family? Out of which
you could have teased as though through
the glowing porthole of a sunken liner some truth
or half truth to see you through to the end
of your days, a consolation that her sisters in shame
would not be able to manipulate, dragging
the needle across your record while they howled
for a new white hope. Damn shame
about the last messiah, he simply didn’t have
what it takes – tears on command & the swagger
of a gunslinger at high noon. Of his many gestures
that you taught yourself to mimic, that ride into town
on a white stallion, seemingly casual but in reality
a slow trot as tight as money in a boom town brothel,
is the one that served you best, congratulating yourself
on your cool indifference to the antics of a suicidal
transsexual. Go ahead, do it! What
are you waiting for? Salvation? An
exoneration? A way past
Louis Quinze?