—BUT IT AIN’T MY FAULT

 

Barley and Hops

 

Maybe we should 

have sex tonight

or fake it 

with fries Cab Franc

and a clown balloon on hand

just so I can feel

something anything

because this axis

isn’t budging 

and every wasp 

has stung my ear 

twice or thrice already

as if I’m a glum 

LA actor with a madcap

hair-transplant 

and too much Botox

But really what I am

is stuck out here 

all alone in the cornfield  

a flimsy scarecrow

years-old straw and all

chewing cud 

mashing barley and hops 

for days on end

If you leave a penny 

or two 

at the end of 

my bloody boots 

I promise to write

you an honest poem

tomorrow—just tell me 

who dies 

when where and how

and I’ll join along soon enough

I promise

I swear