The Man Who is Not a Father
is late on rent
and poring over a gasp
which should be a hiccup
while cold coffee hangs from
a finger
and a cigarette exclaims
I have no owner
and a pencil
launches into immolation
because there is no
valuable word
compounded
that means both pencil
and spite that has no rooster
so his gadget takes off its
not summer dress
and wades deep into what should be a river but too many Irishmen
and not enough peonies
have already made off with the river
so he climbs into his wife
and daughter’s birthday suits
and says without you
without you without you without you
there would be a deficit
of firecracker grins
and he feels this
very much in what would be bones
if he hadn’t one day in November
let the radio frap
off the parking meters
in the garage’s frozen wedding frosting and taken the gasp