Friday, May 4, 2007

My Hat, My Cane

Let me get up and fetch my cane.
Say it was the end of one day and into the next,
Say the lawnmower has run around
Over Grant’s grave. Let me come to the window,
Let me get up and fetch my cane.
I’ve seen it all; I’ve lifted the waterfalls’ evening
Gown and peeked inside – I’ve poured my heart
Into a single letter only to find the ink running scared
Before I could finish the final swoop.
Let me get up and fetch my cane; its best use is
To point out the fault line that cracks us all
In two. Kept with my cane are the ashes of St. Peter,
A crystal that allows to gazer to see
Things just as they happen, a curl
Of Mary’s pubic hair or a ribbon from a baboon’s
Bat mitzvah. Let me get up and fetch my cane, and also
My hat. I use them both to row from brothel to bedroom
When the waters come, when the cats
Use their whiskers to inject the sick with penicillin.
When barets and headbands cannot be bought,
I will float from schoolyard to schoolyard
With my trench coat open and hanging from my balls
Will be a leather purse which can predict the desire
Of all who open it. Let me get up and fetch my cane.
Or at least go put a dime in the metered church pew.
Please disregard my affected limp; it’s on backorder.

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