Hovering in the shadows
like a panhandler in Harvard Square,
I give you my most urgent
Fully Amputated Limbs!
a simple sign around my neck that begs for a lousy cup
of coffee, lukewarm, day-old grounds,
a quarter, a dime, a nickel,
my scabacious hand outstretched for the smallest crumb of love,
as I hear you say, with stunning detachment,
eyes submerged in the sports section,
"Back, back, Bill, give me some space,"
waving me away with the royal hand
of imperial disinterest,
which you didn't do when I cut your
eighteen years ago today,
as you now prepare
to get your tongue pierced
all by yourself.
February 17, 1999