My futile howl is tied to the valves of a trumpet
that blows pleases, and thank you’s
which you slide at your command.
With the thick of my fur slicked back
against my head, like some 1920′s gent,
I look “quite precious,” your granny chimes
in that voice she professes.
We avoid the word change,
but develop, better, tame,
for you shall allow what is natural in measure,
and I shall hunt freely within this golden ring.
In the moon’s greatest hour,
I shall skate down the hallways once more,
– shedding my dignity,
before bounding clumsily away from you.
Once I am alone,
I am not responsible for the hankering howl,
which rises through me,
and forces itself from the brass bell of your trumpet.
A howl, that if romanized,
would look something like
FUCK your bone china –
FUCK your dowries and idol wedding gifts
and DAMN your blessings to hell.
I wriggle pathetically
back into a shirt and tie,
before floating into
the chair next to you.
Making my excuses
in upperclass argot,
the things I do for you,
the things I am for you.
Five courses of fleshes and wines,
and in my blather I forget myself,
or do I remember my true self,
as I force back Northern claptrap.
Can you truly
whip the beast from the beast,
is it ever truly tamed,
or merely waiting?
See now, with my right hand
I gesture to the great Monet that hangs on the wall,
and with my left,
I gently caress the serrated end of my steak knife.