On the march, my poems--
parade of fat men,
shirts untucked and shoes untied,
and I want to make some fun.
Witless, I say, and louder
slovenly.
Tubs and tubas, too, I call.
Heads turn,
focus briefly limpid eyes
and of a sudden
dripping tears,
and the jeers catch in my throat.
Stepping forward, pause and speak.
You are not so fat as that.
And what tubas do not dream of piccolos?
March on as you are, march on.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment