Henri in a clumsy moment.
Sits down to write, “To whom it may
concern…”, crackt his knuckles, & scratcht himself.
Several weeks with not one sent.
In a tall glass with his roots asway,
he plunges a light bulb into his side
which glows, ‘mazingly. Television science!
Henri beams silently. Extending his red-rotted roots
over letters of past lovers, to whom he owed so
much of his pleasure, so much pain & compliance
(and much of his songs, their genius now moot).
Beyond the brim Henri grows
and whips, indolence, knick-knacks.
He predicts a reply, in his mouth a sprig
of straw. The anxiety of sending! A step on a crack
years ago. Tries again, “To whom it may concern…”
His stomach churns after the drink and cig
waiting optimistically for the quick return.
(Mother is doing fine.)
