Fool

You stand tallest! Alongside mountains, looking down
at your insects below. Your long, strong arms
cross a heaving chest of a man; one who
drinks whiskey from God’s own hands.

Our trembling knees wobble past your
black Pinch Tassel’s. We would swing from
your silk, pin-striped tie if we knew
it would strangle you!

I have waited by the water.
I have slept on spore infected carpet
and have rotted away,
have been filed away,
in between four walls and
a blue jacket.

Do you want your coffee, sir?
Do you have a dead line, sir?
Can I give you a hand job, sir?

And the air stays cold,
Antarctica is near.