This day, I park the Scotch and drink up the Volvo.
I drink to a level of clarity. Already, a buddy
has noted that my attempts to woo the girl required
all of my suave apparatus. That in effort
to proliferate a loose kind of love, I took her
nose for a plum. I took her breasts then
she made me feel sorry. Now, I sigh like hell down
the street. And meanwhile, my face feels like a wall,
fists having designed it, my hope a turkey,
stuff having filled it. In aggravating contrast,
the moon climbs into bed with the sun. My skin rises
in recognition. I am one acre of land left
open to the fallen. I am their cenotaph ten.
My opinion thus: hell sighs like mud on the street.