ONE FOR SPRING

It's laughable
to think you're in control.
No matter how old,
no matter how infirm,
no matter how dumb,
numb, beaten and bruised,
blotto or blotted-out,
blown, blimped, pimped,
poised or polished;
no matter how banged-up, banged-on,
or bandaged; no matter how wigged-out,
comatose, contused, confused, infused,
contested or converted; no matter
how holy, pure, pureed, or pruned;
no matter how sad, glad,
melancholy or maniacal;
no matter how rich, how hungry,
how at odds you are
with yourself
your sap--
your stupid sap--
flows
to your genitals.
You are a tree,
my friend, a flower,
a bee or behemoth,
a reptile or a flea's
tiny hardon.
You could be the circumcised cock
of a Jewish elephant or the embarrassed spigot
of an octogenarian; the slit
of a knowing actress
or the gash of an equally hip whore
your body will dance
to the mischief
of spring.

We pawns and beggars
and peddlers,
consumers
and liars
and custodians
of codes
we will get to fuck
once again
and be fucked
with
once
more.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

LUCK HAS NO DEFINITION

There's a black Labrador
that runs
across the street
when there are no cars
coming. He's a very smart
dog. I've seen him
almost everyday
for the last 3 years
up and down my block
dodging dogs, humans,
other obstacles.
He knows the area
better than I do.
He never shits
on his block; he knows
where home is and when
to go there; much better
than me.
Then on a day,
just like last spring,
his nose full
of heat smells, a step
will be lost. His brain
slowed from use
will be there
to deceive him. He'll look
both ways,
as he always had,
and seem to see
nothing.

The driver
will get out
dumbfounded
and angry.
Passers-by
will walk
a little faster.
Dogs on leashes
will sniff and tug
towards their own,
only to be guided
away by a force
more fearful
and powerful
than the dead
black Labrador
lying like a penny
pitched
against the curb's edge
never sensing
how lucky
he got.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 1977