Unmitigated Mahogany

Solzhenitsyn is in the garden
making a beeline to the kitchen door.
Sprinkle the cinnamon down the laundry chute
for I have no cognac to pour.

Dump the czar's body in the Mother Volga.
I see the desert in my bowl.
Set me free in Arabic splendors
and daguerreotype my soul.

I perch in the dying conifer tree
and view the Chautauquan revel nearby.
The lemonade feels warm on my dry lips
and there's hardly a star in the sky.

Yes, lap quickly from your saucer, Puccini;
it's too dangerous here for you and me.
Tomorrow we sail in the dark of the sun
on our steadfast raft - The Jennie E.


DB/c1991,2014