head slung
as in a gutter
at the White Horse―
drunken stallion, old/young and
filled with Poesy
that skips in a circle, until
we all fall down

as the goose,
“Red Rover!...” coming up the avenue
the stitches of its tires
just missing shocks of his hair
feathered out in wisps
ducktailed and oily,
you might say

―to be found at a dark table
dead in the backroom of merriment
Muddy Waters on the jukebox
before the sound was borne
before the gentle light
knee on the plank floor
gasping at the gin
in a train fare blues
before singing, once more, of the farm
and gently, gently
the thud of his forehead to the lacquer
the percussive consonance of The End, thump!
and
wait in smoke
for the fire to open its gates
purge your shackled heart &
permit the company
of
“a Lover”.

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