Monday, November 2, 2009

597. SWANSONG AND MY VALEDICTORY TEAM

SWANSONG AND MY
VALEDICTORY TEAM
Fourteen people plodding along,
trudging up watery hills where the
flagons overflow, the wayfarers call,
and the awful cavalier still shucks at his
hornblowing partner. Maison DuPres,
in the manner of glee - all that sharkfish
and tuna, but nothing for free. Fourteen
people plodding along. Thirteen wishes and
a fountain of dread, lights on the patio, a guy
in blackface, playing his banjo for quarters and dimes.
I set the torch aside, lit the one adjoining, and sat
back, just hoping to watch the evening unfold.
My balloon'd feet settled hard on your lovely oasis.
Twelve times I thought of you, eleven wishing for
your company and ten seeking to stay, nine for the
wishing and eight for the world to go away.
I could go on forever, right on down to zero.
But. This wine is clouding my focus, Martel says
they're running out of fish, seven bottles of wine
are all that's left. I've told him six times to leave that
guy who changes water to wine a five, get the job done,
or go buy four more but leave me three minutes with you,
so I could kiss your two lips, or we could become
as one, together.

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