Eddie Pancake waited on the bar stool for
a personality transplant that wasn't coming
anytime soon as a bucket of kangaroo spit
kept the red ants out of reach of the piano
lesson that raged down the greasy stairs.
On AA meeting night, Eddie kept pigeons
under the armpits of his dented dreams.
Over the years, the sweet debris of indifferent
sex was swept into the corners of a conceptual
life that was very Danish modern.
There were ghosts in the upper bunk
heading for Cairo on a drunk camel.
Eddie was left wearing army boots and
a party hat as a piano was crushed by
the power of a million frantic butterflies.
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