The Bedpan
Ammonia scents
not pillow mints.
Bach, not Brahms
as endings go.
Snowy scrolls
of patent earth.
Cactus weeds,
not clover fields.
No garters
of an open rose.
Your white moustache,
an ivory handle
in the night.
Winter wind--
a harp unstrung.
Hush of old gray
flannel fog
like anchovy paste
on tips of tongues.
Rain's relief
an IV hooked
to glucose bags.
Never the kind
of powdered sugar
dressing fresh-baked
gingerbread.
Cookie tins
in nursing homes
are bedpans
with a frozen scowl.
Tragic screams
igniting candles
closing in on
silver snuff.
