What's poetry about that I can hardly walk, even
with a cane I can't get there fast enough. The doors
are already folding and the lungs bite hard into
another piece of air. Saying December. Only a male
finger could draw the sun as a
bleary eye. The clouds gather around it
like the anger before a husband strikes,
starved and dripping dark rains. I'm almost
there, beating on the glass, open up,
open up, you stupid bitch,
and unwillingly the bitch opens like a hostile husband
swallowing food, thanks, thanks. The spit becomes
vomit, outside, a storm. Only a male hand could
build steps like a gallows. What's poetry about?
Wish I were more alive, knowing how to curse
from here until further notice; the youngsters have taken
all the seats, the little shits, letting me stand, phooey,
sluts.