There was no place for pears, wine, and hash
in this society of velvety Lotharios
I never had the privilege of bidding goodbye.
A chronicler of inmates, detention hall toughs,
and rummies who honor their faces with toupeed masks,
I blanket my life in modern America
with bad injections of the grilled world people deny.
In the city, waiting on the last-minute subway home,
I read the letter from my freed lover
who patterns a life after her beaming daughter.
She is concerned for the lack of delving genius,
the need for more salt in my dinner,
and the propulsion of slanderous sleep around our ears.
I drink my eighth cup of atmosphere,
taste the obvious sediments of burned books.
My trouble is I have the choice to weep
but decline to steer my way toward gym points.
I’d rather invite Mona Lisa to lunch and laugh aloud.