A Dedication to the Rich Is in the Ark

He knew they'd dig up his masks
and throw out his counsel:
a herringbone coat, cranes
in a turnip field: men disguised
as weeping, white birds. His childhood
home, where dust had grown to fur,
would take but five pregnant minutes
to burn to dirt. Written on the back
of a photo in which he poses
below a twisted phoenix, fuck charters
and fuck fireworks. He never wanted
to be a fold-up theater; he wanted
to eat sturgeon from the Black
Sea. He worked a while stacking chairs
in a church auditorium. A pile of what
skeletons, he thought. He wore an amethyst
bracelet. A chemical would maintain
him for a time. Until death, like a whim.

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Copyright © 2011 Robert Ostrom All rights reserved
from Gulf Coast
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission