What with his egg-shell skull
and red beard full of demons,
discoursing on at the wake
just below the broken mirror
to a table full of tear-stained relics,
his disagreement almost convinced me
that my perfect idea was lame enough:
but fat and squat and supremely certain,
he surely would have been uncomfortable
under a tent in the endless rain,
and his snort of sure derision
only served to steer my head,
to make my path that much clearer
after being almost kissed by Jimmy's axle.
(There's a possible context for this
for which I have no name or address-
one of the places where there's a shrubbery
on every goodly trimmed and godly corner lot
and a licking tongue for each steaming greasy pot,
where a perfect photo has yet to be taken,
in which the sneaky mouse cannot be seen.)
Suddenly a great truth dawned upon me-
that hippies can be assholes too.
His seed no match to man up man enough,
I made plans to see that house with the mansard roof,
with inside delivery and liftgate service,
because the claw that holds the bloody ball
has a ticking face on each grasping talon.
I had started to count before the true beginning
and almost missed the truest end:
Towards him, I just smiled and said of course.