Dear me,
what to serve? If I could
cut up the moon, fry it in burgundy wine,
and serve it piping, he might grin.
I’ve heard rumors about his table manners.
The minute you sit down,
up he goes,
to the window, craves something
more surprising than table talk.
A woodpecker. I heard a whole dinner died
on placemats while he stood near a screen door
studying a still mantis. The host
took to her bed. I want to ask him why
so much water fills his poems. It’s hard
to find a sober moment. He can drink us all
under the table, says it clears his head—
he may come to a bad end. He looks
warily at primped gardens, mowed lawns,
relaxes when he sees the wind’s fingers
stroking a hibiscus. I see no fingers. I’ll see them
after he writes his poem.
