I used to wander around on lower Broadway in Manhattan when I was still a teenager. I had a dead-end job at a valve company taking orders from plumbers wanting a gate valve or oversized coupling for an apartment building going up.
My muse is fast; her legs, long, relentless,
churn like propellers. She seldom stops to
explain where we’re going.
The light of evening. A gazelle.
It seemed unchanged since Yeats’s day.
Last year we went to Lissadell
And life was good and all is well.
If you ever saw my father in shorts,
you wouldn’t forget his stick-thin legs,
the knees knobby as windfall dwarf apples.
Adorabull and Moonicorn
(who has a single eye and horn)
are two among the gentle crew
who – for a price – will lie with you.
Who wouldn’t love a story about badass vigilante nuns and the end of the world?