The Moths Have Eaten Holes in My Orange Striped White Suit

THE MOTHS HAVE EATEN HOLES IN MY
ORANGE STRIPED WHITE SUIT

Pierrot
Threw away his guitar,
Recited a poem by Jules Laforgue
and disappeared.

I wondered where she is and what was she
doing at this hour, clipping with a clipper
whose handles are wrapped in blue silk
the decayed leaves off a white orchid,
or she is floating like Orphelia in a stiff,
green dress down the Hillsborough River,
or she might be pouring brandy into a pan
to cook Filet Mignon, Piedmont style.

It is midnight, perhaps, she is asleep
with the man that has Bengal tigers
tattooed on each shoulder,
the fat man who was baptized last week
by being dipped under in the river
that flows by her house.

If I were an Egyptian poet about 3000 BC,
I might say:
Since she is away
the night tonight is an inverted ebony bowl
that has no flaws
to mar it blackness.
There are no stars,
no streaks of comets,
or falling, burning meteors, tonight.
Sometimes, I think the black bowl quivers
a little, but I cannot be sure
the overhead is so dark
I cannot tell what it is doing.

I cannot tell what the sky is doing,
and what she is doing,
I cannot even tell what I am doing.

I think of my misdirected life,
I once went to Palestrina, Italy,
looking for the smile of the Gioconda,
but only found a patch of asparagus
growing behind a white picket fence,
and a rooster that crowed as if he were
singing the St. Louis blues.

I have a difficult time making a decision.
I cannot decide if I want to grow geraniums
or collect Egyptian scarabs.

I remember when I watched her loosen
her white gold hair,
I heard a funeral march.


Duane Locke

Posted over on Plum Ruby Review