The Picture of Little PT in a Prospect of Weeds

So they could have laundered it
and I would have ironed it, I swear,

but instead, straight down the runway
in unstarched demotic trinities
and gold brocade
flounced the not-so-virginal Arch-
-bishop, which gave



me pause much like the paws
d'antan and elsewhere
that only came out of the wash
unwelcome indelible hot-damning
like most things aren't



but this is now
(and how)
a grab not a grope
a grandscale
and a good riddance



and by all accounts it is summer
with the fine nonny nonnies and the hey ding a dings
that drip from the lips of the gold-mouthed ones
like earwax or porno-



but the only sure way to tell
is to root
in the humus
with your hands cuffed behind your back
on your knees, yes, even you Archie



O, who has set the water table ?
O, who has caused
these strange patties to rain down from the sky
into the nooks and crannies of our cravings ?

Selah.



So, as I was saying,
I would have ironed everything
and I would even have worn the hat
that you proferred,
but all your flouncing distracted me for split second
and I crashed into the pole that was the log in my eye
and when I came to



Young Dr Kildare was gazing down at me with the loving oculus
of a test pattern or a civil defense beacon,
Jim Kildare resurrected like Lazarus or Elvis
into a bright new day of wholly catholic affections !



I sprang from my coma like a spring lamb, ready
to translate everything -- everything !
into managerial gibberish

even the Electrolux.