Sociobiology After Hours
by Mark Bibbins
There, where the buildings end, the sun's least glow,
the color of Pernod
and water, the usual question: dawn
or dusk?
On the twentieth floor a red curtain
licks the air, an open
ending, exhibitionism of high
order.
Looks like we've been slurping the same porridge
as the global village
idiot. We like it fine. We pretend
to eat.
She was once heard to gripe, he wants to be
my speculum jockey,
but what I covet is a wrap-around
terrace.
Just drink whatever she has to offer.
Liquid muse, she's bigger
than all of us combined in plastic cup
or grail.
Here's to other people's damage, she says
and we raise our glasses:
To Halcyon Moms and Ritalin Kids,
amen.
