Uncle Richard at my mother's funeral said "Nothing works," and sighed.
He wore jeans and left his shirt untucked to show his disrespect for death.
Short hair, skinny, he smokes a rollie by a white van on the corner.
Looks at me, passing, calls me Jesus and everyone around him laughs.
His eyes are glassy, like the surface of a lake when snow is coming.
My hair is long.
My beard is thick.
Your waxy cropped
head makes me sick.
On the loo musing about Heaven, stones tickle my inner thigh hair.
Such poise, such quiet grace, just being round you made my manners better.
Buy a razor! Look like everyone! That's real style! That will save the world!