The Enjoyments

The apple trees are pink blossom today and all
streets are construction depots, hotrods tearing pavement
from yellow hell into the green pool hall heaven.
I slugged the cellulose capsule at the bottom of a Dixie cup
into my mouth, and now I can’t stop complaining.
The foreman, conductor, engineer, Jerry From Across The Way,
and Phil The Accountant, sleep at their desks.
Their hands latched on suspenders like—yup!
Full as swans squatting in the paint factory:
an orgy of reds and greens and purples and greens
and reds and purples; if I only knew where to drive—
on a cliff, a roof, in caverns, my car in the parking garage,
then I’d drive. I don’t haul or cry for any victory,
or pray, oh I pray, but only in proxy: shit man,
I pray I left the car door locked: things like that.