Just Where Do You Get Off?

Apologies to John Ashbery

At first, we thought we’d hurt ourselves. Pain
Followed pleasure like a pack of hounds.
“Absolutely the last time,” we vowed,
Gazing in horror at the gamboge beads
That spattered the lip of the tub.

It didn’t last. One has only to catch a whiff
Of ammonia for a lifetime of stimuli —
Playboy, peep shows, phone sex,
The Sears catalog, Bugs Bunny in drag —
To crash into memory, a cluster of bombs.
The terror and devastation remind me
Of the nights we slept together.

Prozac took the edge off. A good hobby
Helps, too — collecting matchbooks,
Perhaps, or shoplifting. But oh, what
Merriment ensues when the night air
Touches the body! Howler monkeys
And elephants append their cries
To the riot of cicadas. The trees join
Hands across the starry gaps
And kick up a feverish gigue.
The police are called, but they
Cannot put a stop to it.

How, Maisie, how? Old age is served
One night in a shot glass. The blood
Still moves, but it feels too much like work.
Besides, desire is random. We prefer
The path of a solar eclipse, the remote
Predictability of the heavens, a moment
Prepared for, passed through, discarded.
A comfort, too, is shutting
Our eyes against the resurgent sun.
When we got back to class,
The TA was nude, beneath her roquelaure.