The street is wide enough for dreams and sounds appropriate,
suggesting poolside guilt in cellar bars and anglo plays,
with subtle buzzing urged by those who know in yards of green
felt heaven beneath smashing neon stars unrolled through
space and smoke, revealing abject memories of pain,
in the blistering spirit of the road and the low moaning rain
of a blinded sky, wherein a wizard might die, calling for you.
Bob was Bobby ’til he learned of palindromes.
For his living spaces, he sought motor homes.
His history was built upon deceptions.
He’d been to some Republican receptions.
And on his wall a Spiro Agnew portrait hung.
He’d fallen under that man’s spell when he was young.
When asked, he’d always tell some vague connection tale.
The truth was that he’d found it at a rummage sale.
Although he came from wealth and had a large bankroll,
he preferred to live like he was on the dole.
"Rich folks just aren’t cool," he’d heard a woman state.
And so, just like a fool, he lived life second rate.
He died before his time, found in some squalid squat.
Murmuring palindromes like mom, dad and tot.