My hope, my only hope, some soap
will clean this rope-a-dope; los cambios,
I’m hoping for is close, so I’ve been told
from most folks looking for a toast,
a ghost they wanna hold close
behind moats and fraudulent votes,
banditos and popes; LA to Los Alamos,
I comb, honing in on a new home,
a sea foam to roll in, a swollen, sullen
sudden poem to fold and place under a
pillow, a whisper, a slip on a finger,
a gnome on the lawn, a cheek to plant
a kiss on, everywhere a bone,
a scavenging, meandering, pilfering
zone, we found ourselves in all alone,
abalone and bologna and the pony
you wished for when you were only
six or four, not yet in this rigamarole,
rat race you phoned-in, ordering
room service with tapioca thrown in
in San Antonia or Barcelona jet set
million dollar champagne Moet,
six dollar sandwich in Rome,
I called your name in the rain,
told you I love you, you didn’t
reply the same, now we’re strangers
meeting on the train, just the same
silhouette on the dusty window pane
sliding, shifting, drifting down a one-way
lane in a yellow corvette with a chick
named Bernadette, her middle name


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