Tired Romeo Not Poem by James Browning Kepple

A sucttlebutt, the worst of the butterflies
rounding out around second avenue as a
wild jug laden woman bounces in the rain
tires in rain like secret proclamations,
for everybody plays the fool sometimes,
I bop on down past the speakers, the oldies

in a hall of mirrors you can lose your self
as you stare into the reddened flesh salty
stained with it, hair, follicles and goggles
let the rain wash away the dark smidges
let the hot sun bury his father in the river
and let us cool off in these dirty streets

keep it jogworthy your strides, go west,
cut over to the express and hand a fortune
to the kindly faced personage of the under
7th avenue line, you imagine such kinks
stare at each woman and love her there
fumble for words, stop for stop, get off

take your trousers down, remove shirt,
change - to hide, disguise
pick apart tourists with speeding toes,
rush on down to another day at work
you horse toad, look at you dance
we clean up, go in night, again to the city

for this my dear friends, to the canvass fraught
one wicked one legged pirate for choice thought
indeed a ruptured dwelling has provided us
this roundtable of miscreants to meet in the town
that has bounded down upon the best of the land
come play with me in rain at night outside
here
it'll be fun