I reign from a second-hand Adirondack throne,
My legs in the lap of its facing mate.
Its only other claimant, a house panther,
Lies between my pale feet, feigning sleep,
Waiting, dreaming, plotting, tasting his next
Sudden, vicious bite of a petting hand.
Puncture wounds. Tomorrow's scars. Surprise is all.
The butt remains of two cigars and ash
Of nearly three lie here in ruined state
In a gift ceramic grave from long dead friend.
Amber Sleep in juice glass uniform stands guard.
Paired second-hand lamps,60-watt eyes
Stare at print through cloudy streams of smoke.
Two thirsty eyes drink ink from another page
Through reading glasses from The Dollar Store.
What creeping alchemy transformed such promise
To sodden, slow and smoldering regret,
Life to tedium between the crises,
And printed page to modest, partial ease?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem