babbitt

creature of habit
of knowing it all
comforted
conscience perverted
moral groper and beater
of women and dead
hippies are the best kind
of like indians
and gracious he
wasn't he smug as a
can of raid kills
and no pest strips
saved he knew he saved
talents under a bushel
and bad
synaptic
cleansing and hair oil
where they would never
be found or
used against him
fondling his genitals
in the dark
they could have been
anyone's and that was
his strength and
secret stubble

with a bad breath
stale airwick
air freshner on a stick
stale bread
molded on the edges
capped by grand forays
into woolworth and piggly
wiggly food
spinning honey butter
gilding gilded
aphorisms
nothing ventured
nothing knew.

tpf