Patrick Duffy walks Patrick
Duffy out to pasture. Okay,
Sleepyhead, I think my head is
squished. But this time I
remember! He was dancing
with a guy I’d never seen
and it felt really good. Like I
had truly completed the night.
And when he left I just
stood up and crowed.
Go to bed at seven, pass out in
pewter. Patrick mows the lawn.
Patrick roams over the loam
and moos. A machine
comes over, digs a pond
out of the middle. Patrick
moans. I walk over to him at
midnight, drunk by the moon
and Mad Dog, whistle at the
pond with a Christmas tree
sunk in the middle, remember
the duck feet I woke up to
but not how to get rid of them,
wanting to swim like Nick,
happy as a fish. The TV looms,
rising to oppose its camera.
Patrick thrusts.
Patrick parries.
