Old man white haired southern son of a bitch
with your tongue tie too long
lapping at the cusp of those khaki dockers
those pleated church-going diapers,
Old man Butterfield full of newspaper headlines and religions
drinking daily coffee conversations with priests
demanding to be head of your household,
Would you hold me in those tiny manicured hands
let me kiss that tailgate tanned forehead
calling you Grumpy Grampa Rose?
Full of so much GOTdamn jargon
so much fine whiskey
so much tiger pride
so much masked racism
pushed so deep into the sponge of your spirit
that it leaks out at the corners and joints of your lengthy diatribes,
Loyal southern socialite with friends in high places
stabled by table boys
culled by creole dancing girls
drink the fine wine and wipe those lady's lips on the white napkin, you gorgeous cuck,
Little pink pecker poking its weathered soldier's helmet
from the heart of a silver hedge
hiding from the young pretty untouchables masquerading in perfect bodies
through the terrarium of a coffee shop,
Pumpkin spice on your breath
tufts of soft cumulous clouds over the tips of your Lilliputian ears
the skull beneath that tight thin skin
not much larger than Jungle Jane's prized primate students,
Love me anyway in my crabby contemplation,
in my plaid and denim
regarding you distantly
judging you insufficiently
loathing our forced time together
like a caged circus lion bemoans the man with the whip,
My daddy-for-a-day,
Enfold me under the shelter of your dinner jacket,
promise me all future success
breastfeed me nomenclature accompanied by butterfly hand gestures,
Whisper into my cupped ears the endless industry psalms
I'll quickly forget
when the sounds of your golden throat fall silent,
In this artificially lit hotel conference room
crowned in the gloom of fluorescent gas tubes
you are king of the Polo Boys,
But in the sun-drenched glare of the parking lot,
where packed cars idle like iron pachyderms in a frozen parade
you shrivel
and turn into a faded faceless dwarf,
just another man,
just a man.
TA
with your tongue tie too long
lapping at the cusp of those khaki dockers
those pleated church-going diapers,
Old man Butterfield full of newspaper headlines and religions
drinking daily coffee conversations with priests
demanding to be head of your household,
Would you hold me in those tiny manicured hands
let me kiss that tailgate tanned forehead
calling you Grumpy Grampa Rose?
Full of so much GOTdamn jargon
so much fine whiskey
so much tiger pride
so much masked racism
pushed so deep into the sponge of your spirit
that it leaks out at the corners and joints of your lengthy diatribes,
Loyal southern socialite with friends in high places
stabled by table boys
culled by creole dancing girls
drink the fine wine and wipe those lady's lips on the white napkin, you gorgeous cuck,
Little pink pecker poking its weathered soldier's helmet
from the heart of a silver hedge
hiding from the young pretty untouchables masquerading in perfect bodies
through the terrarium of a coffee shop,
Pumpkin spice on your breath
tufts of soft cumulous clouds over the tips of your Lilliputian ears
the skull beneath that tight thin skin
not much larger than Jungle Jane's prized primate students,
Love me anyway in my crabby contemplation,
in my plaid and denim
regarding you distantly
judging you insufficiently
loathing our forced time together
like a caged circus lion bemoans the man with the whip,
My daddy-for-a-day,
Enfold me under the shelter of your dinner jacket,
promise me all future success
breastfeed me nomenclature accompanied by butterfly hand gestures,
Whisper into my cupped ears the endless industry psalms
I'll quickly forget
when the sounds of your golden throat fall silent,
In this artificially lit hotel conference room
crowned in the gloom of fluorescent gas tubes
you are king of the Polo Boys,
But in the sun-drenched glare of the parking lot,
where packed cars idle like iron pachyderms in a frozen parade
you shrivel
and turn into a faded faceless dwarf,
just another man,
just a man.
TA
