Patrol

Like that time somebody sort of noticed
you existed—first love, then violation.
More assiduous patrols are needed–
someone to ride who knows how to rope rhyme
and corral caesurae, someone to mount up
and stay out there weeks at a time or
until the fence runs out, utterly runs out.
Squalls, major thunderstorms, hail in addition
to the usual zephyrs and plain ol’ sunshine.
Just a manly someone in full armor,
someone who salutes you when he returns
and knows everything an order entails
though no mention of means or motives
occurs in four hundred years of
relentlessly well-ornamented text.
Someone also to wear gloves, to have a
stable of gloves for all occasions
occasioning choice. Choose, choose, choose.
Just geometry anyhow in the end.

 

 

He Kept His Gloves On

He kept his gloves on when he removed his 
head. I know that probably shouldn’t have been 
the thing I noticed, shouldn’t have been the 
thing that bothered me. I guess the gloves could be viewed as a formal or even 
respectful touch, but they made the act a kind of sideshow affair. They were 
cheap gloves, and dirty, and they put his head down on the coffee table with a graceless sort of thunk after which he made rude noises. “Put it 
back on,” I said. “Put it back on, put it back on” he said, as if to say I’d been whining. I looked over at his body, sitting 
with his hands held out like some robot doll. 
”You’re really in a fix now,” I said, “how are you 
going to put it back on?” “I can read your mind,” 
he said, “you think I’ll put it back on just to prove 
I can.” “It worked last time,” I said, “and I hate 
those creepy fucking gloves.”