Wednesday, July 01, 2015

What Was In My Pockets Last Night When I Undressed

My keys, a pocketknife, the Pietà,
A handkerchief, a poopkit, and a friend
Of Héloïse, who said that Abelard
Was boring, but intense—no mix for men.
And 32¢.  Too little to apprise
A grateful nation of my whereabouts,
A paltriness made for a piggybank;
But I was out of pigs, apparently,
And when I dropped my pants, nobody cared
Enough to hang them up, preserve the crease
For sales meetings, in case there was a need
For Pietàs or handkerchiefs or knives.

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