“Deprivation is for me what daffodils were to Wordsworth.”
For half a life I followed you, Old Fart,
hoping to catch the accent of your art.
You cussed the dogs of boredom pissing on stones
engraved with others’ names, one with your own.
At tea, curling around your feet, Bitch yawned.
When a friend praised your poems, Fido fawned.
The dogs, and not the girls, kept you alone
and dug up beds of flowers to find the bone.
Now I’ve traded in my dogs for men,
hung up my leash but not my ball-point pen
which empties in detailing ecstasies,
dancing, gold-petaled memories.
Embracing this hot afternoon, I take
root in fair, rotting bodies by some lake.