A couple of weeks back everyone
was chanting ¡Habemus Papam! in the garden,
on chimney tops, on the floor of the plaza smitten
by bird beaks, but not in the libraries of philandering
codeheads and newly circumcised trapeze swingers.
On that special day no one wanted to hear
something like a “freelance boner.” I’m sure you too
didn’t throw an ear for words like papal shit
or shitty Christology. You know, I’d like to brush
your hair when things go ugly, as in when a tsunami hits
the seawall and there’s no one to fix your hair out of fear.
I will celebrate your eye’s uncalculated wink as it might change
the season from tinder-parched mornings to being eighty-four
and still writing you poems. You know, I’d like
to see you cry, laugh at people off to work, because
you’re edged to clear the skies of jinx and throat-clogged
pretensions. The paddling mallards, oh, I want to count
them out for you and give you my monthly salary
lest I fail to do the maths. I want to carry your bag
when you leave home, check your stuff, and remind
you of the bills to pay soon after the afternoon
glows upon our shoulders. I want to see
you wear that big hair the next time you take a swim.
Last thing, please let’s do it in church. It’s not
what you think, no. I mean let’s do it, the laundry.