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Mr. Grenache
I. beggar�s eyes
I�m no tailor either, Mr. Grenache, but i�m tired and lame, and do need a meal
as much as your next best friend.
I�ve felt the wind slowly, and cast about winter for a bit of treacle,
warm as light,
to entertain my nights,
but no diamond i�ve found
like your own rough-hewn wife whom i�ve just met on the sidewalk coming
home.
She spoke to me of danger, carved for me a tale of icy gales in a hammering cove
where the wind always blows in
and signal fires burn, enraged.
She took my arms and hove me up, far above the flack and wrath,
and in return i paid her all over with warmth.
now�Mr. Grenache, don�t be mad; she�s a fine woman, but
doesn�t know a whit
about tethers and bonds and if you love her then you�ll feed me too
as i go put on my thinking crap, crazy dream by the rust and cement
staircase in the alley facing west.
She�ll be coming soon,
in from the cold and angry, and she�ll act
for you as if i�m the friend and you�re the couple,
though i expect she knows that i know better�
that�s one raven that can�t
be fooled by sun and mist and beggar�s eyes.
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