I’ve been living off my toaster

I’m a cold Italian poser

Could run for president

Or take a dive in the dark
These girls are still over me

Their mute abstraction of disco

A voice alive in a jar

At least until seconds ago
Tossed down on a peel

For the harried eye to slip on

That’s what I call drawing now

Hurried past, on a blinker
These maladapted muses, my women,

Their polite responses in tatters,

Either one of us might be number seven

On their hit parade of sweaters
To repose, their acquiescence

To even one of a number of vain requests

Turns to silk, kitten, the force of logic,

Perpetual pizza, a dim admittance,
Operation at most of a minute

A serried promise, mixed martini

To the end of the table, the meal

Somehow over, I didn’t see any food