Ode on the Letter M

Midway through the alphabet, you are the tailored seam

              that ties Adam to zephyr, atom to uranium,

sword that takes up a new God, little lamb, turns him

              into a flame spewing Visigoth, and Byzantium

becomes Constantinople, the new Jerusalem,

              hallelujah, bombs away. Or are you the flim-flam

man working small towns in Mississippi—Troy, Denham,

              Tishomingo, Yazoo City—hawking a serum

that will cure everything—warts, impetigo, ringworm—

              fade wrinkles, spark a wilting libido. Oh, yes, ma'am,

dose your husband, and that rooster will crow again, thrum

              like a well-tuned violin. A masterful scam

it was until the day that pretty little schoolmarm

              purred like a pussy cat, locked you in her maximum

security prison with gold rings—aluminum

              siding your new game, the highway nothing but a dream

of freedom, because one letter can change grin to grim,

              plug to plum, slut to slum, a few blankets and wampum

can get you Manhattan, itself once New Amsterdam,

              because sometimes we seem to be a quorum

of idiots on a plague ship in a sea of phlegm

              and fog, rumors of disease flying like crows in the scum

of clouds heavy with hurricanes. Or the bride and groom

              in black and white, God bless their little Vietnam,

here's hoping for years of pound cake and hymns. There's a charm

              in myopia, witness Monet's chrysanthemum,

a blob of pink and blue, his lilies smears of thick cream

              on green. I take off my glasses when I can, though I'm

as lost as anyone, searching for the perfect dim sum

              restaurant, locked in my high gothic scriptorium,

scratching for words as rats scratch for cheese—Muenster, Edam,

              Livarot—for there are worlds in worlds—Mozart's requiem

the dark river Figaro sails on or The Tin Drum

              spawned by the SS. Who can guess the mysteries that cram

our brains? Not I, said the little black cat. Fee-fi-fo-fum,

              I smell the blood of everyone. Like Robert Mitchum

in Cape Fear, the ghouls are out, ripping the flesh off prom

              queens and popcorn girls, and as the storm clouds swarm

like killer bees, I'll be searching for my Tiny Tim,

              om mani padme om, God bless us, every worm.