Shout
This chair, this chair is
a sop like its
father, oh difficult
daddy, with the bottles
and the shotgun, here
in memory where
we can't keep it
regular, we
up from
the cane-seat
rocking
chair, bottles
like tails
of tigers, great
hungers, the shotgun
relative to the tigers
by hunting, bottles
here when
gathered at
the reading of
the will we receive
the key to the liquor
chest and gun
cabinet, each
drunk undoes
a drunk, while
the shotgun dances
in the mouths
of the tigers,
the rocking chair
tries to repair
memory but
given the gun and
the drunkenness
we shoot our own
toes or the toes
of the tigers,
because so many
bottles lie under
foot, the mind
becomes slowly
wet, we sit back
down in the chair
and as always, as
daddy hums Brahams,
we fall back
to sleep.
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