His Penis at Eighty
Sing Muse, of the last-picked for the home team. Dawdler.
Drooler. Stretched out past the 7th inning.
My muffled cowbell now the cows have maundered
back into the corn. My mumbler, scanning
his ground with the hunched, kyphotic shoulders
of an asthmatic squinting at a penny.
Who, with knowing smile, recited Baudelaire
to the girls French club and now, past cunning,
would lecture on the necessity of candor.
Yet one time thought a kiss, heart humming
like a hive, might bring order to his disordered
seasons and right the tilting globe spinning
about its pole. Sing of my wounded soldier
without his purple heart on. And the frightened whinny
of the unlapped horse watching others pass it.
As once, above, we watched the North Star fading,
diluted with morning - for it had grown early
having grown late. Sing of growing late.
Of my lost compass. Of my dissolute, my desolate,
my one, my only, my sad faced basset.
Raise, if just a voice, a chorus of Tom Dooley,
and of how we watched that star, pulsing, wish-laden.
in Splendor, BOA Editions.