A QUAHOG FOR WALT
“‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said.”
How many inscrutable angels does it take to screw in
a lightbulb? None.
How many mice?
Two, but there’s not much room.
Two of Ma’s favorite expressions:
“It smelled like low tide at Coney Island.”
“She looked like the last whore at the clambake.”
One of Dad’s expressions:
“Your ass is grass.”
Jump the fence, Johnson grass can cut your feet.
Pisser clams seem nonplussed by my poems,
I’m volatile as a quahog in public.
I’m quiet at home too.
We eat, and are grateful.
Night, my head hits the pillow.
Night, I pray my gratitude
and a little fluid leaks out of my left ear,
relieving the pain. Lilac. Saguaro. Dandelion.