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