Oh my god, here he comes!
He was a myth:
descending the dark stairs,
flourishing gestures of a hat,
the First National Bank–
his open window.
Even in our ashes
she clasped the rich seclusion.
She’s the one with the money.
She’s the one wants to be an opera singer.
She’s the one wants to be an actress!
She halted, indecisively,
the cool gulch of afternoon,
the heavy, paralyzed body,
stone deaf.
He was a myth:
The violent shuffle
of a palsied tattoo.
michael jarmer 