Not exactly
lagging for want
of protection
of some patron saint
so much as
a few presidents'
mild faces—or better
still,
a fine-
arts patron;
and longing,
all-
along to be lured—maybe
by
dayjob wolfhound quicksniffing—
squirrel trail,
to flowerbed pissdrizzle,
to the simplest
smell—of
sun warmed wood,
then here—
off the boulevard,
not to mere
dross pennies,
but gleaming
dimes and fresh
nickels in the birdbath;
thereupon,
suddenly
starts a mossy
uvula swelling
and jangling—'til over-
whelming-
ly it's—
glory glory glory!
Oh glory be
to God?, maybe
but victory—
to me.
