PAPER SAILBOAT
His profile in shining lunar silver
twinkles with Dublin glee
on the half-dollar (JFK,
insouciant). Camelot forever.
I was born in ’52, believe
it or not, but only
52 years ago I
lost my innocence (heave
sigh). I was 11 years old
when they shattered the crown
of the redhead king. My own.
A double birthday, dubbed. Fold
up the deck of your paper sailboat, son;
in Newport they will mourn
the people’s chosen one,
killed by the backlash of the gun.
A still life, now. Brown Decades
(Peto). Reminiscences
of Lincoln. Whitman’s
chrysanthemum (cresting cascades
of lilacs). Memphis underworld –
I gather the limbs of Osiris
(52-pickup, Rimini-Venice).
First king, dead king. Neighborhood
gossip has it, Solomon,
he’s coming back. He
never died. Like Jonah
Houdini, he’ll eat fish in Hebron
yet again.
11.22.15
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