Maloney Rolls a Yellow Stone Away
I've been invested this wild night with the power
of life and death over Peter Huxtable
whom I've not seen for fifty years, and sits now
in mottoed blazer, fresh-faced on the front row
at the AGU Symposium on Global Warming
where a hyphenated man is shortly to present
a plagiarised version of my ideas for its control
and lurching from my bed I turn my buttocks
to the mirror, look diagonally up
between my puzzled thighs
as pursed skin parts, blurts out a trumpet call
sweet as at Tutenkamen's tomb
the resurrection not of Pharoah
but the Peter I once knew, and never knew
- old before his time, even as a baby,
dead man who's not yet learned to shave.
My radio spurts out two words - religious sex –
and I don't care if it's profane
as long as it's with Alice
whom I've known since long before I met her
but yesterday I did not recognise
who's not at the symposium on global warming
who once massaged the length of me
with olive oil, knelt
but we were laughing so much we couldn't do it
we slithered round the point
like Peter Huxtable - despite his seat on the front row.
