In every direction at dusk,
Magenta butterflies,
Clear goblets,
Gucci shoes.
Now they’re yawping about the PLO.
You’ve been holing up in a muddy trench
Of diurnal subterfuge, counting
The number of fine ideas and days
To live on the fingers of one hand.

Try to smell how good your buddy’s
Last cigarette tastes when he finds it
Isn’t his last. See how friendly
The sun becomes after a night of siege.
There is no difference between
Your first wife and a pool in Connecticut
(Who’s going to pay for the azaleas?)