Edible saints in pink wrappers,
Energy drinks, black cigarettes,
And Beefeater—spirit rappers
Who come and knock my silhouette
In the Upper Room on the Up-
Per East Side; a man, so torn—torn!—
Alone I dine, holding a cup
Filled with dry gin and a stillborn.
My marriage is dead.
By the Fiftieth Day I know
I won’t have to pray to Simon
Or to Jude, baby, no dumb show;
And I will outgrow my daimon.
I have Cartaphilus legs, no-
Where to go but down, so I kneel
And I look around; quid pro quo,
I give myself and you don’t feel.