The Man with the Wicker Cigar

Observe him as he steps on the balconyto bless his squadrons of gasolinehe holds seven jewelled microphonesin his seven left handshis nostrils twitchlava pours from the studson his shirtfront

below him a sea of bouquetseach with its head zippedin transparent green paperbursts into cheers

his mouth is like a teller's wickethis eyes are of silk foulardhis teeth are certified winnershe is smoking a wicker cigar

reassure yourselves declaresthis sweetsmelling popeof the flatlandsdeath is an illusion