my pocket has one nickel & Mason's has a dime;
a transient, red rubber ball ping-ponging deep faith with & for
carnival trash is what falls from the
raccoon's mouth past three; the midnight tour, troupe, &
egret have plucked my eyes out before petit dejeuner
& have all booked residence with lush vagabonds from
some oasis on the curb of Suburbia, the ottoman wet where
lore slumps the backs of the fairest; where,
beyond equanimity there boons & beckons
tightropes, slacked tension; and where folklore swells
arteries like King Cake; the swamplands have my pocket
picked; pock-marked truants (BOY) fiddling in fours
during school hours, cakey margarine spread all
over their legs as they eat grilled cheese and
become, ****,
in the ambrosian daylight fogged out with figgy shade
by thick, carpet-fondling curtains, sagging with secondhand soot.