XCIV
The Squeegee Man
i.
To the body of a fish
Who trains his eye on the rolling dock
Or who keeps up a library for his dead companions
Sleep comes at last, as though cradled in his ancient mommy’s arms.
His thick wardrobe falls off around his feet
And the knowledge that below her veil her hair is teased to perfection
Makes it easier to take a slap on the wrist
When he tells her he has fallen in love with the song of the boats.
—Look here you, it sucks when your lover breaks plates around your feet
And calls you names you’ve never heard before
But is it better to be kissed by the approaching men
On scorching hot days with their squeegees?
ii.
On this terrain that you stumble over
The manhole covers are as resigned as tombstones
And all the effort it takes to stand erect
Asks your muscles to put their hands in their pockets.
What does the fish inside you tell you stranger?
What forecasts of dry dollar bills and what ornate wardrobe
Do you dream of, dead on your feet? And of what fermented
Hand you’re holding out as you fill up the gutter?
Would you like (if it’s not too steady a fate, laying on
Its gloved hand, proving too clear-headed for you)
To climb up out of these rocks towards your momma,
Even though there’s no promise she’s waiting at the top of the pile?
What if the universe held its noose around your neck as a caveman holding his lover by the hair?
What if everything, even your mother, was dead, and you were back out pounding the pavement?
Good God! It’s necessary that we put into our minds
In every country on the continent
That the earth is scorching while we dream
And it pushes up its lewd, hot kiss
From below our naked feet.