Milton

    Not the poet-though yes，

    a poet， aspiring. Old.

    At Big Cup he regards us

    slickened with testosterone，

    his eyes entertained.

    Though his full hair helps him

    seem a youth in drag

    save for the swags of his neck，

    he can't but help present

    himself as age itself，

    a brand of birthmark

    we think we won't accrue，

    unnerving as June rime

    limning a suburban lawn，

    as if he were a black man

    scouting a Mormon temple.

    His melting candle of body，

    cupped， burns. He grins.

    Compare him to the man-crone

    trolling Our Place

    in Des Moines with Frank

    Fortuna and Dan Grace

    two decades ago：

    Brutally cruising， drunken，

    his halo of hair aflame，

    he swaggered to budding men

    declaring "You'll be me！，"

    his annunciation denunciation，

    then stalked off， sated.

    The boys， abashed and angry，

    decided time was a virus

    you just had to swallow.

    "The faggot angel of death，"

    Frank baptized him.

    Now Frank is fifty-one，

    commences drinking at noon.

    Maybe knowing Frank，

    or himself an initiate of crones，

    and warhorse of Village cafes

    whose soldiers now are wraiths，

    （who here knows

    what old men know？），

    Milton acts like he belongs.

    He steps among tattoos，

    buzzed hair， and bashful mouths，

    inhales the caffeine and finds

    himself an appropriate chair，

    surveying the sipping guys，

    while taking care to seem

    a clean old man.

    He winks， to summon us

    to the fallen fruit of himself

    that if we've got guts enough

    we will pick up and eat