(for Frank Sherlock on his birthday)
Sent down the Schulykill in a reedy basket
to uni-gog the guttering grid,
dark nighties lifted up in your honor
stick on the fork of the upside-down metro
polis. Yowza, the calendar says
to rescue a stranded worm.
We'll hold a fresh minted caterpillar
in abeyance for you, along with a heavy
stack of mid-city money. It's nearly funny,
you at 40 when so short ago
we had the Poetry Kingdom alock
in the Figure 4. Waiting the arrival
of near death we rejoice in its coming.
Your cake seems to be wearing black socks.
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