POEM

               Fiddle Faddle

Never one to mince his words, the butcher—

or was it a baker? for when you say mince,

the pie could be either meat or raisins since

anything goes these days. Sew it or suture

depends on where the stitches go, tapestry

or lacerations on the arm. The future,

they say, is for those whose mental tap is dry

not the ones who imagine liquid dreams.

So what he said was this: everything is false,

the speaker, the hearer, the stains on silent reams

of silken paper. Dance me a dance, a waltz,

a mazurka, a stately minuet or reels

around whose axle hysterics cry: Cease!

in whose gimlet eye there is no peace.