My Gladness
I find a hole in the gilt of my gladness
Big enough, just for us both to escape.
If you first push one of those napthalene eyes
To the crack in the gilt of my gladness
You can see how the grass is burning in brightness,
In ebullient, prescient, dallying shyness.
There is whiling and jesting and drinking
For pleasure, and rabbits that gambol and ramble
Forever. You can see there, my grandfather,
Enjoying the hills, writing histories is Welsh,
Thick Welsh, for 'English, it just has no poetry.'
A vague outline of teacher, that must
Be hairs ine her nostrils, and my old Jewish
Maestro crying for Callas on Synagogue steps.
Press your neck out but further, catch comfort
On the bridge of your nose, spot rivers
Of sherbert and coo-ed one note arias
Shimmering out from your old mother's chair.
But for all of the ballet and ginger and honey,
I'm not taking you there. I pricked out this fault
In the gilt of my gladness to show you the tree
Where we carved our real names, to present
The footprints that stammer our monologues
And turn all our wars into games. Just
To the left, with fake plastic nose,
The city smokes a dark cigarette, hiding
The poetry of rich-folk 'neath bubonic cloak
And a cane made from chapters of cheap
Old novellas. Maybe this time we could
make our home there.