1
Jolly good of you to come, Tom.
Meet Ezra, my lovely boss,
accountant of my heart.
He considers me a reliable narrator.
Hand me that overcoat.
Ezra, take the fern.
He’ll discern your fortune from its rhizome,
while I go scrounge us up a pair of juicy ballpark franks.
2
Now, now, Tom. I understand
what you mean about your face—
(staring down at the weenies)
it’s the same pale, sphinx-weary complexion,
the same hazel eyes alive with cruel introspection.
“It’s serious business,” Tom said, now with menace
(staring down at the weenies)
“When it’s seriously good.”
3
You’re thinking hard and fast
of a nest of restive jeans upon a resonant eve.
See this timepiece, I’ve no use for it.
What is more, the wind can change
things in a thing you heard
over a charcuterie cum Ouija board.
Then, at daybreak,
a little old man comes out and wipes crumbs into your lap.
For Rupert Wondolowski
Pour out an old cup for the man. Sit
down on a couch made of fake wood. Settle
up. It’ll be here every morning while it lasts, sure
as the cock crows, the crow flies, and your thighs
glaze shut from ennui. I’ll heat your toast up on my
midget stove pulling out all the toppings fandango
and not what. But first you need to fish this block
of wood out of my eye, become more sensitive to
the spiritual world. Indeed, there’s a possibility of
achieving sobriety through boredom. Take this
door, for instance. I bet my life on its very
premise, and each day hangs in the
balance, squeaking at the hinge.