MOST MEN IN AMERICA

Poetry Potluck

One Shot Wednesday

Outside my window

the raven calls

to follow him again

as in that kingdom far away

in a time when hoods

of muslin saved our sight

from the the diamond in his eye

that blazed like a thousand suns

And wasn't it you

who told me that love

is like a banana

you've got to peel

away the facade

And wasn't it you I saw

seething inside your skin

at the Metropolitan Opera

grunting like a pig

when the fat lady sang

hooting from the balcony

like a Portuguese pimp

a break with tradition to be sure

running amuck till they pinned you down

inside the ladies room

tempest in a pisspot

And isn't that

Miz Chauncey Lee Lamour

sitting right over there

sucking on her

mint julep

trading tales

of the good ol' days

when men were men

and women were horses

and GIDDYUP OL' PAINT

was the prelude to a kiss

her entourage

of the rouged and the wrinkled

hanging on her every word

well aware that

most men in America

in this year of the locust

in this decade of the plague

would rather be sniffing

through the long abandoned

ruins of an old haunt

than to give up the ghost

to your baby-faced whore

And now my old friend the raven

has moved to Baltimore

where he works as a squeegie man

on certain odd numbered holidays

and plays the guitar

with Eric Clapton

and sometimes Charlie Byrd

while all the sweet young things chant

GO CAT GO!

GO CAT GO!

But well you know

that the whole world's a stage

that you're going through

just to get to someplace else

and though they stomp and shout

for another encore

quoth the raven: AINT NO MORE !

It was a lively time

says Miz Chauncey Lee Lamour

well aware that most men in America

take their pants off one leg at a time

all grist for a story of some kind

and you know dahling

you really should write it