The nutmeg vassal
Your old friend delirium like another scalp
shuffling on and off, giving face to the half
of adolescence that stoops into shambles.
And your friend wears a trenchcoat, sells bibles
gripping his crotch hollering hosanna,
squats by the bench we sat on talking ’til dawn.
Your old friend the proselyte I can’t exorcise,
nor eulogise, nor delight to meet rudely again,
wavers like brain cells.