I like that within the ultimate fevered surge,
Hectic and heartsick and hemorrhaging time,
He had the artwork, the nerve, the necessity, the urge
To cup one final honest couplet with a rhyme.
Not “zest,” a lot. It hints of spice and tart.
The sprint of z does nothing to hide
A younger man’s penchant to neglect the center—
The convoluted kernel—for the peel.
“Unrest” suggests the sleeplessness that turns
A burning saint upon a brazier mattress—
The place vibrant with brazen martyrdom he yearns
For warmer fires, not pillow to his head.
However “waist,” now—that’s a handhold when she ideas
An overbrimming cupful to my lips.
