TOFFEE HAT
The talk around town was another million men,
the stupid kind, the immigrant kind with the
endless face in the phone crapola. I walk around
such estimable idiots whenever the chance arises.
Oh, gardener, will you mow this lawn and cut this tree,
will you trim my world and bake my meals? Hidden,
archival man, hordes as one, behind the pizza-oven-stove
to clean our now-foul American mess. You make my
sandwich - even that, you say? - with filthy hands
and a moribund face. Why should I eat that? Why
should I tolerate? Deliverance is just a habit.
I am so happy to be so distant and far off.
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