In the Montana whorehouse the madam yells "Burma" through the door to the girl and her customer when the time is up, circa twenty minutes for twenty dollars, the value being established by Nixon's Price Commission on infolding nightflowers, petaled creatures. So the customer who is a language buff looks down at his shoes, all that he's wearing, and thinks: How did I get my pants off over my shoes? Has a genuine miracle happened? Why do they use Burma as a signal rather than Peking or Topeka or French fries? On the dresser is a photo of the girl with a child, her son in a sailor suit. Does he cry Burma in the night to get his mother home? A tape cassette playing Wilson Pickett. Can my future be traced on those stretch marks and if she were wet would they form small rivers, minnows and all? That twenty was hard-earned by art to be printed in New York at $5.95 net. Will she buy him another sailor suit? The room is hot. Perhaps during the C-minus transport the house has been moved to Burma and outside is a green hell with lianas masquerading as vipers and vice versa. On a tray there is some dental floss, Moon Drop lotion and a cordless vibrator, an aerosol can of Cupid's Quiver. I really didn't want to go to Burma this afternoon, ma'am, he thinks. I'll miss supper and fishing the evening hatch. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FALLEN STAR by GEORGE DARLEY FRAGMENT 113 by HILDA DOOLITTLE FALSE POETS AND TRUE; TO WORDSWORTH by THOMAS HOOD A WAYFARING SONG by HENRY VAN DYKE GOD AND HIS MARTYRS by CHAIM NACHMAN BIALIK TIME'S SHADOW by MATHILDE BLIND |