The poem I just ingested
is already gurgling questions.
But my interests are elsewhere invested.
Digestion has its own suggestions.
My mind has been elsewhere on manhood,
pink clouds passing, silence, and time.
I think I’m still mostly sane, knock wood.
And I’ve cut way back lately on cruelty and crime.
I’d like to die under a large stack of books,
preferably ones I’ve just read.
More likely some Art of the Deal slingin’ crooks
will bash my head in with their spiel till I’m dead.