Next door a rooster inscribes
his cry on the living cosmos.
Overnight my hair has become
a nest of aluminum foil
to short out government broadcasts
intended to singe my brain.
I dreamed of taking the bus
to the Bronx and getting lost
among tall brick apartments
that observed me with disdain.
A plump and eager woman
came along to sing to me
in rooster cries so metallic
they scorched me stupid enough
to lose my bus fare and strand
myself in a neighborhood facing
the Hudson River, steamy
with summer evening mist.
The plump woman abandoned me
and I awoke in a dazzle of stars.
Today a thunderstorm will bulk
the horizon and threaten me
with a personal thrust of lightning
straight out of the Aeneid.
My aluminum hair will draw
more voltage than the Hoover Dam
generates with massive turbines.
The government will broadcast
news of my illumination,
which will gratify the Vatican.
The plump woman will rise from
her own dream of the Bronx
and try to remember the name
of that fellow she met on the bus.
Before the thunder unfolds
I’ll shower, shave, and breakfast
in tones so muted the rooster
will go back to sleep, and maybe
the oncoming storm will greet
my humble stance with pity.
O
Out of the Aeneid
