THE POET IS DRUNK
The poet is drunk, no one
Notices. He is staring so hard
At the hostess that her dress
Begins to melt. Naked, her skin
Is criss-crossed with scorch marks.
You have a long heart line, he says.
Look at the view, she replies.
Like preternaturally white shark fins,
Yachts glide over the blueness.
Orange lights blink on.
The hostess passes by,
Fully clothed, unscorched.
INTERMISSION TIME FOR A CHANGE
A happy ending kind of day.
Towards noon, blackouts. After lunch,
A cloud or two. A shower, first of many.
The sun hanging in there, a beam.
Cut my losses and walk home, he thought.
Not his ideal woman, pregnant as sin.
But would he get a better one.
He was on the washboard slope to 50.
Her age untidy but when she gave birth,
She would be immortal. Drops of water
Struck his forehead leaving a line of holes
Along the never never land between the windows
Of his soul and the top of his head.
What were the losses he was trying to cut?
Sunset was overdue THE END would float up.
The sun came out for one hard look
Before closing down the show.
He wound up the clock, watched time go by.
