For Carl Sagan
My old reptile loves the scotch,
the way it drugs the cells that keep him caged
in the ancient swamps of the brain.
He likes crawling out at parties
among tight-skirted girls. He takes
the gold glitter of earrings
for small yellow birds wading in shallow water,
the swish of nyloned legs for muskrats in the reeds.
But he moves awkwardly in the hardwood forests
of early American furniture, stumbles on grassy
throw rugs, and the yellow birds
flutter toward the foggy horizons of the room.
Out of date, he just can’t swing
so slides back always to his antique home,
the stagnant, sobering water.
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