ISSUE: Winter 1976
The Maygirls dance to their poles.
The fire brigade has volunteered
to come with their instruments,
marching behind.
Each girl carries
her basket of daffodils
nodding their heads
like wired curls.
Their college blazers cover
the breasts, of all shapes cupped
in diverse brassières.
Wilting
forsythia and cherry blossoms
border the quad
where professors inspect
the student beauties
prancing in unison to the poles.
These are his maidens. He is nine,
the prince of faculty brats
come for his visual droit du seigneur
to stand by the bushes,
each one blooming in his mind.
Oompah, oompah
is the rhythm they follow.
He doesn’t know
why he watches or what
in the lifting of their hems
as they skip
keeps him there until
the school bus takes him off.
They still jig past.
He would flame under each thigh
and is a pyromaniac of desire.
Loose the alarm,
let the Band scatter
back to their ladder trucks
and high roof acts.
Give him one moment
alone with the tuba,
He will dance them round and round the pole
until they melt like tigers,
his lilies,
sweet butter that he spreads.
