CONTRACTOR

I've just contracted
A twenty-thousand-square

            Footer in B Hills

So that fat comedian
Has enough room

            To screw as many

Virgins as he wants.
I'm slugging my gin, neat,

            From a gold plated flask.

My Caddy ragtop is down
And the whores along the strip

            Want to run their fingers

Through my hair to turn
Themselves into stars.

            My wife thought

It made her a star.
Now she hovers

            Like a marquee, long enough

For a clean left hook.
I want her numb, numb

            As Catalina fog. She stays

Home that way. When my
Youngest kid was born

            My wife hardly had

A hair in her head.
I pulled it. I wanted her

            Bald like an eagle

So she could dream of flight
And not get to. The four brats?

            When I open the front door they

Come at me blowing snot
Like pigs. I stand

            In the living room

Holding my arms out
Like wings. I'm strong enough

            For two to swing

On each arm. I spin them
Around, around, around,

            Then fling them into

The walls, the furniture.
They fly like eagles. . .