Читать книгу Red Rover Red Rover - Bob Hicok - Страница 20

Under construction

I meant to be taller,

I tell my tailor, who tells my teller,

who cashes my check all in ones

to suit the height of my ambition.

And kinder, I tell my trainer,

who trains my tailor and my teller too

to look better wetter and drier, kinder

to people and blue skies, moles

and Republicans, even though

it takes more muscles to smile

than tell someone to fuck off.

I ask my tuner to listen to my head

and tell me whether it sounds out of sorts;

she says a man’s not a piano

and cries, for wouldn’t that be nice,

a man you can sit in front of

and play like Satie turning a piano

into a river speaking to its mother,

the rain, late at night. But she’s sweet,

my tuner, and tightens a few strings

in my back just to get the old tinka-tinka

up to snuff before she kisses me

on the cheek. Life. I think that’s

what this is, the glow

where she smacked her lips to my skin,

birds acting surprised that the sun

has sought them out once again,

and me looking in my closet

in the morning and choosing

the suit of snails

over the suit of armor.

Who remind me to slow,

to savor, as if they know.