My Ragged Company

Published in Verse

As the cellist played a gigue, Bach,
at Virgil's, a cantina on Salem Street

known for their garlic martinis,
I overheard a man say to a woman:

we'll be flying to London to see Queen
at Wembley, without Freddie Mercury,

once again. And that's how I knew
how I knew it was spring, how I knew

it was time to wax my barque, my balls,
wipe the dew off my cheval mirror

to reckon who's the prettiest of all,
and beckon the huntsman's long knife.

last updated Thursday, November 15, 2012 @ 12:56 PM