The smug see me as nothing
but negativity: pout-mouth petulance,
        lace-underwear lust, a city of mystery
in which pathos and greed stand

        idle as empty high-rent apartments
with coffin-shaped plate glass vents.
        Inside them the dead are resting
on expensive brocade sofas.

        I have stun gun marks on one arm;
there’s a fig at the edge of the myrtle-leaf rug.
        The snake is acting like he likes me.
The dimpled boys are practicing

        their onion-eyed dirge. It takes courage
to do what I do day after day on my barge.