Mine’s sixty-eight—I’ve been “Cooling my heels” over an hour And the priority slip I’m now using As a bookmark says my waiting Time should’ve been around nine Minutes; in the meantime, I’ve been Making do in the overworked air- Conditioned inner sanctum Of the nightmare
Institution which looks after My rapidly dwindling bantam Nest egg with all the care Of a crazed mother hen,
And reading a slender volume Of poems called Sleepwalker’s Songs, All the while thinking of what I could do If my nest egg were fatter, watching Customer after customer go up To the teller and walk out again
Onto a dazzling, searing asphalt so hot it could fry Enough dinosaur eggs to feed an onslaught Of famished, day-dreaming somnambulists Armed to the teeth with nothing But a slew of cool blank checks— I wonder what 69’s thinking of.
That old Greek he knew you Can’t step into the same River twice, for even If you could, you’d still find Yourself high and dry On the banks of certain Uncharted shit creek With nothing better To do save wait To pay a certain smart-ass Ferryman to paddle Your dumb ass across.
Straightaway as you Open wide the narrow blue Window shutters Of the old stone house By the sea, wave Upon wave of small white- Capped memories begin Spilling in, slowly Washing the grit That clings to the grey Walls clean—