Rory

Think of Rory sleeping on the table,

and dreaming of his fortyleven widows,

shoulders hunched, like jockey in the stable

still riding gargoyle past the judges' windows.

A crazy wino crying soft and steady,

whose fingers prayed to rein his horse of lust,

while over the sprawled lumber of his body

the sun ran like a spider in the dust.

Remember how the nickelodeon roared

like a wrong lion, and shook up his dream?

And he banged his head against his bed and board

until the very wind began to scream?

And for his bane's brawn, and his belly's fight,

cops offered mercy, lodgings for the night.