by David Groff

    Not the poet-though yes，

    a poet， aspiring¹. Old.

    At Big Cup he regards us

    slickened with testosterone，

    his eyes entertained.

    Though his full hair helps him

    seem a youth in drag

    save for the swags of his neck，

    he can't but help present

    himself as age itself，

    a brand of birthmark

    we think we won't accrue²，

    unnerving as June rime³

    limning⁴ a suburban⁵ lawn，

    as if he were a black man

    scouting⁶ a Mormon temple.

    His melting candle of body，

    cupped， burns. He grins.

    Compare him to the man-crone

    trolling Our Place

    in Des Moines with Frank

    Fortuna and Dan Grace

    two decades ago：

    Brutally⁷ cruising， drunken，

    his halo of hair aflame，

    he swaggered to budding men

    declaring "You'll be me！，"

    his annunciation denunciation，

    then stalked off， sated.

    The boys， abashed⁸ and angry，

    decided⁹ time was a virus

    you just had to swallow.

    "The faggot angel of death，"

    Frank baptized him.

    Now Frank is fifty-one，

    commences drinking at noon.

    Maybe knowing Frank，

    or himself an initiate¹⁰ of crones，

    and warhorse of Village cafes

    whose soldiers now are wraiths¹¹，

    （who here knows

    what old men know？），

    Milton acts like he belongs.

    He steps among tattoos¹²，

    buzzed hair， and bashful mouths，

    inhales¹³ the caffeine and finds

    himself an appropriate chair，

    surveying the sipping¹⁴ guys，

    while taking care to seem

    a clean old man.

    He winks， to summon us

    to the fallen fruit of himself

    that if we've got guts enough

    we will pick up and eat

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