Wednesday, February 01, 2006


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,
where he started.
Z. is fortunate,
though not a son
Z. takes lewd
with little blinks
of his everlasting
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

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