Of paper plates and plasticware,
An unwilling bachelor is unfrillingly made.
Ramen, McIlhenny and expired milk;
Half his bed is paved in unwrinkled silk,
A false-luxury he’s lavished upon himself.
Most drawers empty, save one for skivvies,
Another for unkemptly-paired socks;
None for the tempt-privies of a warming soul—
Those were interred in a Rubbermaid box.
Baton-twirling bunnies barred from the clocks,
But one honeyless key for the locks;
He talks, tongue-in-cheek, to himself—
Just banter-hope, like dust, on a sandbox-shelf.
After one or four whisky-over-rocks,
If the icebox needn’t a defrost again,
He doesn’t waste a wonder-door on when
He’ll thunder once more into wildfire-frisky;
Rather, how lately-soon they’ll cart him off
To earthen-kin, Leavenworth or the loony bin.
He’s not Dostoevsky’s problem,
But a simple southwest-boy
Clutching a wilt-given, late-spring blossom,
As likely to wake unto sun and joy
As the depressingly play-dead possum—
So still, though heart-piercingly alive.
Oh, banshee, quiet the comb for a beehive,
As he’s alive-inside as vivid could buzzingly seem
With the torrid dreams of a ridiculous man—
A secretly felicitous, deliciously missed,
Hardship-kissed, singularly solicitous man—
Dismissed for an impatient can of wishes.
But he’s fearless that love could fade away with him;
For should it on a death’s too-reckless whim,
His ghost would revisit to rake the feckless seeds
And wraith-water them green again:
Green-again and recanvassed in color-plural,
An ungrey mural as to why we should never be—
And never truly are—
Alone in this ravaged, risk-managed,
So-selfishly damaged, artless-want world.