Another night in the gator pond,
quick splash, the plush of it,
the flurry of hands – not your own –
it’s a pleasure to meet you, it’s a real
pleasure. A common theme runs through
the night like a streaker. We strain
for a glimpse then look away.
We’re all tied up with nowhere to go.
In bars, boys yell, Show us your tits!
and girls say, No! World of soft
bodies, world without in/out privileges,
I dedicate this year to grief, the next
to mild contentment. I dedicate
these two hours to a tub of ice cream
and wrestling reruns.
A flu-like sentiment hangs over us
like a hung jury, staid and pleading –
Salvation Army tin, no, collection plate,
no, the plated voice of Collections: I know,
I know, just send us what you can.