I Eat Poetry

He's Lost

We prefer if you don't step too close
to his pedestal. Yes. He's been
coming here for years, but only
in the evening. Yes. He's gainfully
employed, his body still worth
its own salt. He can add
fast as a calculator, he can file,
he knows how to talk to people.
What? Oh, well you see, he's lost
a good--yes, that's his investment
portfolio. As you might deduce,
it's empty. He's lost--no, don't poke him
with your cane, we prefer that you step
back and give breathing room. Behind,
please, the velvet rope. Ah, quite true--
I suppose auto-erotic activities
would be the norm. He's lost, you see,
a very good--no, he doesn't mind looking
at pictures of your spinster sister.
He can't see them, though he wears
this helmet we've devised that holds
one's eyes open through weary hours.
Yes, we've a patent. Alright, let us
not gawk, but press onward. Oh him?
He's lost a damn good woman, he's lost
quite everything. Onward, my friend.



© Jenniffer Lesh