I am the freak lilac blooming
from the pipe.
I am rolling thunder to scare dogs beneath rugs.
I am home for dinner,
round from the beer and flat from the prairie.
I am Solo and Doctor Jones,
alone in one room.
I am the janitor of your mayor's
closet and a waitress with perfect omelet lips.
I am the conductor of your train who loves the sound of his own voice
through the static of the public address system. I am a lemon rind
swimming in martini. So drink
1 ½ to stand your hair
like cornfields. 1 and you want 2. 2 is too much.
So true was the portrait and the gin, perfect on the deck, the vermouth
and the gaze
down cape, bombs bursting over water. Beneath the commotion identity escapes
with all we have. So now
tell us what you know:
I am Joe
reporting from here.
- Joseph Weissman