by Randall Mann
I found my muster station, sir.
My skin is patent leather.
The tourists are recidivists.
This calm is earthquake weather.
I’ve used up all the mulligans.
I’d kill to share a vice.
The youngster reads a yellowed Oui.
The socialite has lice.
The Europe trip I finally took
was rash and Polaroid,
was gilt, confit, and bathhouse foam.
And I cannot avoid
the end: I will not die in Paris,
won’t rest for good behind
a painted mausoleum door.
The purser will not find
me mummified beneath your tulle,
and Paris will not burn.
Today is Thursday, so I’ll die.
Come help me pick my urn.

0 thoughts on “Song

  1. Interesting to see a rhyming poem. Looked up some words. “Muster station” is where passengers on a ship are sent in event of an emergency. “Mulligan” is a second chance in a game. “Oul” is a Czech workers mutual society. “Confit” is duck or other meat cooked slowly in its own fat. “Purser” is a ship officer who keeps the accounts. “Tulle” is a kind of fabric. All these meanings pretty much fit in the poem, but none of the lines add up to much. It seems the poet is a traveler who ends up feeling he wants to die. But why and how? The title gives no clue.

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