Still Orbiting

Ugly as I am,
Irving and I run around
grabbing soup and soap,
and picking up vodka
and sugar,
taking off our uniforms
and replacing them
with street clothes.

Vicious as the week,
we serve the same commercial,
participating in the playground,
where the guitar guarantees my heart
before I can even promise its strings.

It is a fucked up thing,
being here, and being there.
Here are my fingers,
and here are the candles,
because a hundred misfortunes
found mine, fat-faced, and leading to your claws.

I belong to ness,
dancing slow,
and not knowing where to go,
but believing fifty-nine years
have gone by,
since we broke the ice
in time.

38 hours
have gone by
since your last laziness,
put on a record
and lets pretend
to dance
round the room.