A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
Blonds grow liver-spotty; their hair turns grey,
But mentally, it’s still that straw-spun gold.
The nose-pierced teen who can barely say
Picasso thinks come Fall she’ll be enrolled
At Yale—a scholarship (of course) to study art!
If art goes bust, she’ll try Divinity.
Everyone is blinded by the heart.
The only guy who gets it right is me.
My garbage man has found The Source; my priest
Is hot to be an astronaut, though he’s
Afraid of heights; my sister and her boy friend
Are off to India—I call it Weed Land—where she’s
Convinced her bovine soul will find its place.
My daughter’s chess coach—geeky, twee—
Wants to help the Red Sox win a pennant race.
The only guy who gets it right is me.
Morticians, politicians, everyone’s
Another. Even mother, bless her heart—
She claimed that she was French, her stock of Huns
Not kosher. Is anybody happy with their part?
I guess those Hindus have the bit down best.
Flesh on, flesh off—through all eternity.
But that’s work! Eventually you want some rest.
The only guy who gets it right is me.
My therapist’s a ninny; he wants to be
The Sage. Get a load of his advice: a job!
Hey, I’ve sold a dozen chapbooks. I get paid!
The only guy who gets it right is me.
Lance Levens writes and teaches Latin in Savannnah, Georgia. Jubilate, a chapbook (Pudding House Press), was published in 2007.