Atop the stairs
Captain Tragic's naked dog
mopes, glass eyed
he spies 'master' resplendent
in comedy thong
applying the coat, thus
"creating the role",
then shivers alone.
Us, window sat. You, bloated,
fork rice in my wine blurting
"TREE...BUCKET!"
and know
I'm laughing inside.
Tragic leaps upon the road, screams
"I AM SQUIRELL KING, NOTICE MY PLIGHT"
sits and beats between his thighs,
a plastic acorn drum.
'Tree Bucket' outshone
You press your nose to pane, remark
"There's a man-squirrel beating
his nuts in the street. It's almost
poetic" So I snarl a refute and futilely,
remind you "It's trebuchet, love".
Tweeded doormen name Sneer and Snort
chalk out the tarmac ‘tween concrete
lips, wave flags, drop their knickers
and spin as 'His Complete Works' steals first,
the rest of the canon just chasing
to place and Tragic still drums
in the settling dust.
I pay. We step out in the echo.
You stuff your mitts deep
blow mist tipped back on heels
grin "look at that moon!" to
the same old fucking moon then turn
sweetly, smile, take my arm, sigh
"Oh you're just annoyed because
you haven't written anything lately."
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