I thought, looking up at eyes
that never saw as lovely as this.
I take a drink
from Frank’s gorges of blossom
and wink like a grandfather clock.
We’re almost to a new year,
“Happy Christmas,
everyone!” A postcard from
Gerrit in the jewelry box
with a scarf slung over it.
The rains
come for sure, I fly through
February and March, still in
America, where the lyric
has long
filed for divorce. What
will the sewages think of next,
I wonder, as we stroll humbly
up the corkscrew avenues, the
bottlebrush graciously
combing our hairs? “Pomade?”
he asks, and I gladly accept.
These, the days
of neither a spot on our ascots,
nor a care in the world.
