“Arrest me aura who is it
who goads there? Who sends
shadows up m’ deep end?
Tweety? Pooh pooh
not, friend — not
knowing where the bodies get ferried
disturbs me sometimes. Oh, it’s you lot.”
         Out here on the symbolic prong
there’s a bar with loud music
burying beef, lettuce, pickles, mayo
and hundreds of miles of fried bread.
“You can dance attendance if you
want to, old salt,” cajoles
egghead.