The Gray Can
It is 7:16 in a coward’s evening
On this yet another drooping Wednesday.
I would say that I am no longer bedraggled over you,
That I need you like Comet,
That I have 12 geisha now,
That they studied in Kyoto,
That they are not shy like you and me.
Yes, I would say,
But were I to conclude a truth like Socrates
I would state that I must ask you on a date
For a glass of cranberry juice.
You would affirm or condemn,
And if condemn I would flee to Hades or nirvana or Alcatraz
Or to a bottle of Smirnoff or some such, I suppose.
I must pray to the moon,
Illegitimate star, hanging like a banana,
And I must take Japanese tea.
I should consider, too, praying
To French gods of love,
(But then French gods of love make me puke).
Perhaps I should invoke Jesse James
Or Theodore Roosevelt.
The banana moon will tell me, I am sure,
That if we do not meet,
I shall have to consult three Catholic priests.
These men would anoint me
During grievous Extreme Unction
With gray and holy incense
Spooned into a gray and holy can.