The Rub

Has I slippt so far, says Henry,
rolling past the mandrakes like a wet cigarette,
stopping for change at the telephone station,
can this be for real, he asks, examining his own hand.
No fear for the wicked, dropping a cantaloupe
in the middle of the street, and watching it roll,
roll, roll, into the gutters with the newspapers and
leaves of other varieties.

Let me find a street with only sycamore lining it,
I would strip the bark and make my own papyrus,
home made papyrus, to start a homegrown
hieroglyphic, picturing songs my voice isn't
shapely enough to sing.

And if it isn't bent enough when we find it,
it'll be broken enough to shatter the dreams
of blue oxen and shepherds' wives,
rotating around a golden sun, whose will alone
is enough to make it shine.