Alone in my sagging ribs,
I search for random joy
in the disordered world.
The ukulele breaks free,
a wild arpeggio—
castrati chanticleers
from Constantinople
set my hair on fire.
A team of Centuars
dunk me in ice water,
singing, hallelujah,
just like my old chum,
Jack O’Toole, used to,
before taunting:
“Go soak the country
of yourself in a pail of water!”
I bury the stone of my misery
in a hole at the bottom of the pail.