People who rub elbows with the noted
among us—meet at bars, drink vodka martinis
and tell stories so much more interesting
because they are—so much more,
while you and I are emptied here
with beer and a decent reposado—brisket
smoked all day, haunted by lyrics sung
on the radio during the war—Floyd sings
to Vera and we drown awake. A bee stings
you between your front teeth,
your lip swells as big as a melon.
No one understands why I love the Cantos,
you say. Yet they embrace that bastard
Eliot. The Chisholm ran through here,
I offer, as if rutted limestone were poetry.