48. LAST WINTER PLUS ONE

LAST WINTER PLUS ONE
Everything's a part of my deal - the fingers, the feet, the chin,
the gut. You can't get away with less than that. I
harbor no fools gladly and tolerate nothing less than
a breach in the wall - someplace you can sneak through,
or slip away, like fearful water in a quiet flood.
I built my house without a hammer, using hands for
a mallet and blood for a glue. Every picture which
hangs covers some flaw in the wall.
There's a mysterious ornament hanging on the porch -
something like a curse on the side of the doorway,
a place where no one comes anyway. A fusillade
of racketeers, voicing opinions only for
each other, a tribal matron pleading prayers
for something hidden. Perhaps both these things,
in their way, equal ancient nomadic tribes of old
today claiming some God as their special protector.
It won't matter. Blood's in the ale we peddle.
Selling it for a dollar-to-donuts, ten cents on the pint,
five dollars a day in a pesky way, this stuff
will run out by nightfall for sure.