Is . . . is . . . .

The 21st, late in the year, we are all sitting and you

have abandoned Tom Caruthers

(uh-huh, we know about it, and for Samuel with the droop-shoulders)—

you are in that era of high silliness;

Trotsky-on-toast! We can’t stand the thought

of one another. Even the televisual support system

of the laser light-show purchased by the Donovans

(they are always . . . );

overwrought, all of it. Tiddling about the new Anchises-

and Hector-themed plate sets they had installed

in the second kitchen. Night-birds

diverting in their little divorced warble to the stars,

even the stars are amused, everything is droll,

there shines a liquid beneath us smooth,

but it isn’t polite to point that out. Oh monstrous me

we are in the pool again, oughtn’t we be scandalized. 


Inside the flambeaux-pink dining console

Morton has decided, bosh, it’s going nowhere,

my children are mush-handlers and toadies.

This isn’t Cleveland. There were rules

in the previous way of things. Uncle Cimilon, the hostess waves, won’t

you pass through the foyer and grab us another

tray of something? Turns. I’ve been wanting to talk to myself

in your presence

in this ashen robe for some time.


Tough everything. I have an announcement, Bob stammers,

(no one can bear his fascicles of glee)

I have cornered the raccoon near the side portico,

won’t the guests please lend their attentions . . . .

Oh how touching, Tippie-darling . . . .

Really! It’s something else when he


massages you, I could swear he was whispering

in my ear the whole hour, 

I spend long weekends imagining,

I kept asking—

do they speak Spanish there, where you’re from

are there beaches

and like an old friend

he didn’t nod, didn’t disagree.

He just held me.









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