Head

Z. is asleep
Z. is sleeping
soft on his Indian-
and-blue-eyes face,
bald as his Head,
bald and personable
as his one-and-truly prick.
Z. is atoned.
Z. is stoned.
Z. is in his 10th Step,
exactly
where he started.
Z. is fortunate,
though not a son
anymore.
Z. takes lewd
suggestions
with little blinks
of his everlasting
eyelashes.
Z. enters nirvana,
not nervous
not envious
of nervosa,
not tanked.
Z. is about right.
Z. eats queens' greens
for a side to his
acorn squash
and pork belly.
Z. misses Miss Ann.

(c) 2001 by Ann Bogle