Make it Write
Saran Wrap Your Mountain
By Fayette Fox
I imagine every oboe-eyed
Man on a motorcycle
Is really you
Howling at the windstorm
He feels he must have created.
None of them are you
Still it tears at the land
Under the bristle neck pine,
A particularly colloquial conifer
I can only guess you would dislike.
It was swell having you around
And it will be even more swell not having someone
Like you around
Because as you once told me
Over a shoeshine full of gin,
We have enough names to string
From here to Berlin
And back again, by way of
Tiajuana
And those are only ours!
I am gradually growing accustomed to
Sweating here at the Saran Wrapped breakfast table
With plastic tarp over my chair and coffee and cereal,
And before long I'll wrap the whole house
In my blue plastic tarp
And you won't be able to erode anything
Not my bristle neck pine
Or my next job interview
Not even me
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