March to the restless sea in threes
my girl, my lanky lad and trees
will line the ancient boulevard
and flowers bursting forth in bud
will fall in disarray, and hard
against the blinding onward flood
press nothing more than memories
like flakes of oatmeal
splintering a beam:
He to me, the seam
between a jet stream
and a gleaming wheel:
spinning, whirring steel.
No reserved seats. All aboard!
Friday, Six P.M. and the AMTRAK
has just pulled out of the station.
It's still light outside but
Mr. Hot Stuff can hardly wait for
the evening's festivities to begin.
In the back pocket of his linen
slacks, his gin supply artfully
disguised in an Elixir bottle.
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack.
He can't quite recall passing
through Rosemont or Edgemoor-Puke.
Inside the pouch of his Unders, the
stalking Stalk so hot to Faulkner,
Fuchs, and Frick. He really is a prick!
And when Mr. Hot Stuff comes to town,
his camera comes loaded and ready to
shoot a Cast-Of-Thousands... Millions!
How many winking fortresses will wilt?
How many fresh, cheeky girls (their
Parting Fancies as yet untouched by
Mr. Hot Stuff) will moan tonight? ...
Where once through Maidens' Lips, they
whistled Girl Scout tunes. How many?