Older then, one more yesterday notched
into this haggard wasted belt, tight about,
turning in the widening gut, but must
be the clothes, despondent, I seem,
up the block quirky bobber says,
and I think he’s talking shit on
my writing, but no, he says, your mien,
like a traveler lost his way,
fearful forged face, luggage jowls,
over needy and under taken.
Ate too much, talking to self,
I don’t travel well, I say, when
he tells me, Go to Hell, but
let’s go for a beer sometime.
Drank to gorge, piss like a glacier
melting, violating the graces,
not a single work of mercy,
no incense in my crucible,
my feet leave a trace of beach tar
on the pavement parchment.
As the third and final act ends,
the boards weathered smooth,
the audience awakes to the smell
of coffee and petrichor coming
down the aisles, the ushers throw open
the great doors of the hall.
But what’s this, another act?
The players pretend nothing really
happens backstage dressing room sweat
when I present sweet flowers to the star.
The Coming of the Toads 