Handler

All of the pokey small town chicken-shit

scratching in the chicken-yard dirt

for power—

the public left hand conserving this

so that the private right hand

could develop that

while sweeping the ever-gathering homeless

under the downtown

welcome mat—

the gerrymandered and the jury rigged,

the zoned, oh, we were good at it,

weren’t we, Mr. Mayor,

your honor, you and I, we were

some team, never defeated,

never caught.

Our foreplay was the ploy

of values, the clean

façade

of straight talk, and the flashing

ordinances that passed

in looks

between us in the council

chambers and before

the press.

Oh some of course suspected,

we had our enemies,

ex-wives, ex-

friends, and even the ex-

exes that had to pass

for friends.

Daily there were deals to broker,

palms to re-grease,

and files, so

many files to open and keep open

—I kept meticulous files—

I managed all of it

for you, sir, I managed everything,

I who now can’t manage

to move or speak.

If you could only see me here,

if you could visit—though

I know you won’t,

you couldn’t—what handler now

would let you?—but if

you could slip in

some night when hardly anyone’s

on duty, and could see

my nurse,

my handler, my chicken come home

to roost, I think the vision of her

would amuse you,

hymning her righteous ha-ha—I’m saved

you’re not, O Jesus my

loving savior—

while she washes down my body

in that rushed half assed

why bother

way of hers that leaves my legs exposed,

the johnny bunched up

around my thighs,

and the catheter, my last cocksucker,

running out from beneath the

covers shamelessly.