already I dream the dream of youth
that is by me yet standing still
in line at the matinee remains
(still) a consignment to true grit –
& celestially you’re above us
framed in the celluloid solstices
of my imaginary silver screen
beaming your close-up of Madonna
laughing at us both from hell
because her profile’s untouchable
& the clerk smirks his mentally
askew comment on all L.A. hustlers
preening for you on Santa Monica Blvd.
that taste of your body a serpent
ambrosia I’ve paid for, always
a dumb thought balloon floating
naked beyond this mean street
while the night impales our spirit
handbill on the nearest telephone pole
your drunk husband claims is his penis.
