mmmcccxxxv

Remembrances of Low Hanging Fruit

     In these situations
     I’m trying to figure out what is going on.
                           —John Ashbery

Doc’s putting the
finishing touches
on the upright piano.
It’s expected to live. We
all are, wouldn’t you just
know it! Doesn’t it make
you cough to think that
Kafka was telling it like
it is? I’m not battling
all of the humor, I
swear; I gave up
feelings long ago
for things like
poise and tousling.
How not to finger
through Herb’s
hair when it’s
so hungover.
Doesn’t that
remind you of
the same thing it
reminds me of? 

I swear I’m not
just being gamy,
but, since we’re
back to expectations,
I mean, even well beyond
fraternities past, there was this
code, this easy way to tell, it wasn’t
just the gossip was it? All the men of,
well, not just Cleveland, either, but, and
yeah, it was certainly an artist thing, but
we all just knew the bang. But now we all
hang around clucking like we’re rolling a tiny
tart spoonful of melon around and over and under
out tongues, and yes, lemons, melons, limes, even
apricots are trending like Fire Island archery and the
pulverized bones of Plymouth Rock, but Charlie, dear
Magnolia, we’ve lost not only every rotten sot whose
inclination it was to show up on our porch step with,
along with all of the accoutrements, a rather twisted
bunch of bananas, but we no longer score even one
member (sigh, member!) of the banana brigade. Oh, 

to be young again, and to gang around with all of
those swung hunks! Where’d they go? Whatever 

happened to them? Don’t say a word about
a funeral, Spike. When you’re too old to 
remember how fun it was not to care, 

but not quite old enough to excuse 

oneself to the Dairy Queen for one
of those provocative milkshakes.