Poets Laureate

Oh, obstreperous one, ornery outside of ordinary
protocols; paramilitary probie par 

excellence: Every evidence
you yield yells. 

In search of pasture, a place to lie down in.
Back to the mother breast
or a dream of return

The notion that the carriage wheels clattering through Paris
remind him of the drums from the islands in his father’s tales:
clickclack sputterwhir—he could make a song of it, dance

Can’t say he walked the walk.
Talked it, but everybody
did that, everybody