for William Carlos Williams
With all respect, Doctor, the orifice from which I speak
is filthy as the cat you kicked from your bed last night.
I’ve come to you, specifically, for pharmaceuticals
but instead of the saccharine cherry you stick me with
your pitiful perversions. Don’t call the nurse—I hate
the nurse with her mercury fingers and starched white dress.
(You dreamed yourself writing this poem, dreamed me
crossing a wet pasture naked at dawn offering this broken
cup of poison, this odor of box, this chore.) Doctor:
I’ve come to you for a cure, not to stand on my hind
legs and perform. Come, let’s share a vial of blue,
one for me, three for you, then let us
dream on our backs in a bed in your farmhouse
with your scalpel and steady hand, come let us carve
the puckish poem that made me make you a man.