He’s in the gangster basket.
Nobody’s got the guts to say his name.
And even if it’s Christmas in July,
the smell of gourmet cooked fish
is almost the same as last time.
We who croon are like the effrontery
of moonlight on the waves at high tide.
It is not up to us.
Nor do we ignore the frenzy of doubts.
“I murdered sixteen people when I was 9.”
That was said in a good chocolate-deep
voice and my lumbago is unlike La Strada
so I hope the starlings perish.
You fly away now.
Fly.
Fly.
Fly.
-- Peter J. Dellolio: born 1956; NYU 1978. Books published: A Box of Crazy Toys; Bloodstream Is An Illusion Of Rubies Counting Fireplaces; Roller Coasters Made Of Dream Space (poetry); The Confession; The Vigil (fiction).