Not Exactly Having Fun

He wonders at what strange requirement –
what surreal change in the environment –
he’ll have to undergo in his retirement:

as if there ought to be a time when you
should laisser-faire yourself into
effluvia and goo –

thence to rust –
crumbling into crust
and dust.

Clearly no one else is jealous.
Tell us
how you’ll hang him on a trellis

and how he’ll try to find it fine
to drip like wine
or turpentine

in the sun
not exactly having fun
considering the option of a gun

soiling the lawn
from dawn to dawn
until he’s gone.





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