Oh to be telephoned late at night by a stranger whose voice
projects nothing but bright concern, nothing intimate
between you except a common regard for the hour

It was as though the very day itself was wearing a see-through
   blouse weeks before
a mastectomy,

Today it’s the blimp over Manhattan,
in search of some unnamed event. Drowsy,
gaudy, lazy, almost sexual, its beauty

Someone slips by you in the corridor of a crowded train, a
stranger making his way
   to the bar,

So many channels to choose from. Somewhere
in the high numbers blockheads trash-talk
during recess in the blue playground near school.

The good life is unbuttoned, questions
about gender just stirring after a raucous night
under the hammock. Rumor has it that trellises

Baseball is the purest sport, meaning
ballparks out in the heartland, mixing
fork balls and slurves, tapping

Everything about
a human
is doomed

Your Death, dressed like the good Gray Poet
Still leaned over your shoulder

The music stares to fade. And you’ll be gone
before I write the lines you asked me for.