key to the city

 

with a city map an aerial view in your mitts

do not ask for

forgiveness

but make your explorations

 

Cocky Locky pretending to his throne

the great Applegate meandering

to his’n up the purgatorial coasts

by dusty streets in the way

these things go

 

stop those callers who come to the thick of the fray

with nothing much to say

here is your reward

a continual heckling never a laugh

a fart nor so much as an order for drinks

 

I thank you says the speaker

now one to his right

looks to his left and shouts

at another on his left who shouts

back over the speaker

at the top of their voices

 

here’s your Stanley on Urals

question do I presume? or was it

long anyway afterwards

the cup passed to me out of hand?

 

or the otherwheres that dictate to the poet

how his plainness should be that of water