The last grasshoppers
thinner than political prisoners
breast up out of the goldenrod.
They know they are flying into
the end of the journey.
Toads in their outsize skins
doze on stones. They line up
like old men in lumpy sweaters
sunning themselves outside
the art museum
taking what they can get.
Meanwhile the snake
has put his tail in his mouth.
He has much to consider.
Meanwhile the woodchuck
is dragging his rusty heartbeat
deep under the granite ledges.
He will be dreamless all winter.
The lover, shaving,
consults his mirror.
Last night’s dream stands behind him
all teeth and mouth and legs.
He is a natty dresser, but
it is that season for him, too.
For twenty years he has lain
with legions of golden girls
alike as polka dots
each with a gift-wrapped face
each with a butterfly mouth
to be pinned under his tongue.
As long as one virgin
alights on the edge of
the East Side penthouse
the world is his cocktail party.
He sips from the plastic champagne glass.
He has much to consider.
Meanwhile Mother on Elm Street
verboten in her corset
can be seen lying on the rooftop
can be seen hammering down the shingles
can be seen spilling out the honey
can be seen savaging the carpet.
In one frame she cries clumsily
her tears loose as gumdrops
her mouth pulled down like a rubber band.
Meanwhile he is required
to make ineffectual love to
his first girl over and over
the Jessie, the joy of his hometown.
He undresses her under the bleachers.
Armed to the teeth with entreaties
he replays that fearsome scrimmage
of buttons and bra straps and stockings
dreaming the same dream the same dream
while grasshoppers rise in the tall weeds
to take their last lap in the pasture
like cross-country hurdlers.
Leave a Reply