Sunrise, seven November, the seventh day. Rest. Gumby, pushing sixty,
Enters his yoga studio by the glass door, gliding slowly. Pokey, waiting in
Corpse Pose, says, I voted Romney. Big Gum: I did too. At the back window
A bat leaves its cave, circles tightly, returns to its cave. Out front, the
View is different: parking lot and ocean; blushing clouds migrating
North; two birds in one tree. One stays exactly where it is. The other,
Feeling loose and taking wing, craps in flight. At the boardwalk, a street
Lamp is fresh as milk and hasn’t gone off yet; beach waves slap shells; a
Teen of uncertain gender renders a sperm whale in oils. You know which one.
Gray cars parked next to black suggests a white one must come soon.
You know what I’m talking about. Father, by the way, is still in your rear
View mirror. You won this time, but remember the Phoenix (and Icarus).
Back at the yoga studio, Big Gum & P are in Downward Dog. Big Gum lunges
Into “split leg standing pose,” Iyengar style, and spots from his window the
Big O breaching beautifully, slipping beneath the waves. Meep meep, Ahab.