Automontage

Somewhere under yesterday
your happiness was killing me;
I heard Jimi Hendrix play
Beethoven’s second symphony
on mandolin with Morrissey,
whose aria was heavenly.

Someone threw a dead bouquet,
a colander of Beaujolais;
the trappings of the bourgeoisie
all locked up with a minor key.

Left of yellow disarray,
you wandered into Rick’s café
and ordered from the cold buffet,
then washed your feet in Sencha tea,
your Buddha belly on display
in corpulent discourtesy.


Folded into leased esprit,
I was decreased and stole away;
and fallen into liberty,
I made it over yesterday.