Claude takes a nap after breakfast,
Moves around his armies
On the map of the world
He dreams will someday be his.
Kisses a bruise on his mother’s
Linen-white neck with his hot breath.
He sleeps in the basement
Next to the coal shoot,
Paws through the attic
Looking for a suit to hock.
Grandpa’s suit with gusseted breast,
A rose still pinned to the lapel.
Only Claude would throw
It in a trash bag and head downtown,
Leave it on the bus
Where an old lady with a sunflower hat
Speaks to it about the weather,
Misses her stop and decides to ride
The whole route again for the millionth time,
Using the suit as a lap blanket for her graven cold legs
Which she dangles off the bench seat
As if stuck on top of a Ferris wheel
Overlooking the entire world some Claude
In his absence forget to set in motion.
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