It’s impossible sometimes to make your way
through the undergrowth—think of Desoto,
Think of Cabeza de Vaca hacking down briars
Heart feels the time has come to compose lyric poetry.
No more storytelling for him. Oh, Moon, Heart writes,
sad wafer of the heart’s distress. And then: Oh, Moon,
bright cracker of the heart’s pleasure.
Disneyland at last: The draw-bridged entry! Monorail!
Tom Sawyer’s cave. Gators on the Jungle Cruise. Natives
passing in canoes. Snack-bar at the Matterhorn.
A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
About birds and his business–the lot,
Which is no surprise,
Since he’d met his demise
And been left in the ocean to rot.
You know you are not in charge
of your body any more
despite its joyous odes
now that I don’t have sex every night or carry two fat boys,
one on each hip, up small mountains,
I have to go to exercise class
The ratio of sad men to happy men was tilting toward sad. Single men were sad and claimed to not be attracted to people anymore. They changed their names and dyed their hair. They had dead cats. She was getting used to it.