Do you confess?
Marching to the beat of an indifferent drummer.
Tender slippy pork, pants with a silent "K":
A gravity he didn't have before.
Thank you for the pre-existing myth
Of an eighth of an ounce—
Very urban, feigning hipness,
Intensely cordial.
By all means perish the thought
Of an absentee security guard
And a flame-retardant Brooks Brothers suit,
In a shelter now: that's infection.
I don't lie, I don't steal, I love my wife
And I want to see the baby
(Banking on her not being Asian).
A cold wind blowing
All the sweet hookups
To the left of grotesque,
Allegedly in ill-fitting clothes.
