Which one of us thought it a
joke? Perhaps the both of us.
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.
—Oscar Wilde
I might as well throw that in,
like a bad bag of potato chips
or a stack of clean towels lying
still (still lying) (still lying, are
you?) in the bedroom after
last week’s wash...
...seven [lucky] years after
kneeling at his smooch-
besotted gravestone (more
like a monument, actually)....
Where were we anyway?
(Where was I, do I mean?)
Oh. On Harrison Street.
But none of us were gig-
gling. Neither of us were
giggling. But a toothless
smile spread clean across
your beautiful bespectacled
Face it, Del, you’re a hoax
hidden within a petty
theft. Within a lie you
don’t even believe to belie,
to be a lie.
P.S. All winks go to heaven.
{Wink! Wink!}
