I’ve been running the bathtub for you at 75 degrees
Since you first pensive penis sprout at ten.
So Will, swim like a toad in your porous latte.
I will not be a traitor to my fucking country!
The shout goes up over the din of other balding men
Singing in similar showers built like prison pens.
Mother, what has made the roosted pigeons of our time
Turn into wandering pigs? Trite grunts fill the halls
Of higher schooling, and math and crap
Of an indistinguishable kind, rubbery blue, make me cheat
At chess with my best friends from Yale. I tell them
Their decision to go into foreign service or snooping
Looks good in retrospect. At night, I turn my brownbacked study
Upside down, in search of that poem from Auden called
“September, 1939,” that he seems not to have penned.
My mother approved each of my girlfriends, from poor Bella
To rich Jean. Each of them denied strains of domesticity.
Every man is an idiot Ed Sullivan in a tidy suit.