. . . god this garden bores me.
Only one man, and the animals
talk too much. No café tables
beneath the tree canopy,
not a single boutique.
I could bear the tedium
till yesterday, when the snake
slipped me some pomegranate seeds.
Now I see how sweet the ocelot
would look as a coat,
the snake himself would make
a smashing jacket.
Even Adam might be
handsome if I could get him
into a turtleneck, a Citroën coupe.
That man is still incredibly naïve.
If I could stop his grinning
long enough to smoke a cigarette
I’d tell him about Sartre.
Stare into his eyes
until this shrubbery
seemed only a strange dream.